THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

A  Play  in  Three  Acts 

BY 
J.   WlEGAND   AND   WlLHELM   ScHARRELMANN 


a**** 


The  Wages  of  War,  Wiegand  and  Scharrelmann 


a. 


Summer   Number 


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SUMMER,    1908 

The  Wages  of  War,  a  Play  in  Three  Acts, 

J.  Wiegand  and  Wilhelm  Scharrelmann         129 

Translated  from  the  German,  by  Amelia  Von  Ende 

Cordia,  a  Drama  in  Three  Acts          .        .        .  Hyacinth  Stoddart  Smith        165 

The  Codicil,  a  Comedy  in  One  Act Paul  Ferrier        193 

Translated  from  the  French,  by  Elizabeth  Lester  Mullin 

Two  Husbands Henri  Laredan        207 

Translated  from  the  French,  by  R.  T.  House 

The  Primitive  Man  in  Modern  Fiction       ....     Hilda  Ridley  212 

Gahriele  D'Annunzio's  Dramas Pietro  Isola  215 

The  Poetry  of  Ethna  Carberry  ....     William  J.  Merrill  225 

The  Beat  of  a  Wing          .        .  '      .        .        .        .        Charlotte  Porter  234 

The  Paesisti  of  the  Nineteenth  Century     .        .         .    Thomas  D.  Bergen  235 


EDITORS 

CHARLOTTE  PORTER  HELEN  A.  CLARKE 

ASSOCIATE    EDITORS 

Modern  French  Criticism  Modern  Italian  Criticism 

CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE  PIETRO  ISOLA 

Modern  German  Criticism 
PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  AMELIA  VON  ENDE 

HONORARY   ASSOCIATE     EDITORS 

DR.  W.  J  ROLFE  PROF.  HIRAM  CORSON 


THE  POET  LORE  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

194    BOYLSTON    STREET 

BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


Entered  as  Socond  Class  Matter  at  the  Post  Office  at  Boston,  July  22,  1903 


VOLUME    XIX  SUMMER    K)oS  NUMBER   II 

THE  WAGES  OF  WAR* 

(A  play  in  three  acts) 

BY  J.   WlEGAND  AND  WlLHELM  ScHARRELMANN 
Dedicated  to  the  Friends  of  Peace 

CHARACTERS 

Tenants  of  the  basement  in  center: 

MATRENA  GRISHEWSKA,  an  old  widow  (sixty  years). 

MARIANUSHKA,  her  married  daughter  (thirty  years). 

IVAN,  foreman  in  factory  (twenty-six  years).  Other  sons. 

SASHA,  printer  in  newspaper  office  (twenty-four  years). 

Tenants  of  basement  to  the  left : 

DMITRI  KEKULIN,  dismissed  clerk,  formerly  in  office  of  army  stores 

(fifty-four  years). 

NATASHA,  his  daughter  ( twenty  years). 

PETER,  his  son,  newspaper  carrier,  crippled  (twenty-two  years). 
Tenants  of  basement  to  the  right: 

JACOB  SIPJAGIN,  laborer  in  cartridge  factory;  veteran  (fiifty-eight  years). 
GRISHA,  his  daughter  (nineteen  years). 
ANDREW,  his  son,  soldier  (thirty  years). 
A  sergeant,  three  soldiers. 

SCENE:  Petersburgh.     TIME:  the  present. 

ACT  I 

(SCENE:  A  basement  tenement.     Reary  center,  stairs  and  door  to  street. 
On  a  level  with  the  street  low  windows  through  which  one  gets  a  glimpse  of  the 

*  Copyright,  1906,  by  Qustave  Wiegand.     Authorized  translation  by  Amelia  von  Ende. 
\  Copyright,  1908,  by  The  Poet  Lore  Company       Al!  Rights  Reserved. 

129 


i3o  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

life  without.  To  R.  and  L.  an  alcove  partitioned  off  by  curtains.  To  L. 
front,  door  to  the  tenement  of  the  Kekulins.  To  R.  rear,  door  to  tenement  of 
the  Sipjagins.  On  wall  to  L.  Russian  stove  surrounded  by  bench.  In  center 
of  stage  a  table:  to  L.  and  R.  of  table  a  bench.  On  wall  to  R.  a  cupboard.} 


SCENE  I 
MATRENA  GRISHEWSKA,  DMITRI  KEKULIN 

Matrena  (bent  with  age,  delicate;  face  bearing  traces  of  grief  and  priva- 
tion. Stands  before  table,  silently  staring  on  icon  which  she  holds  in  her 
hand,  half  wrapped  in  apron.  Mumbles,  nodding  her  head}. —  Dear  Lord, 
is  it  sin  ?  Oh,  the  misery  of  having  to  take  the  Savior's  image  to  the  pawn- 
shop. The  last  treasure  of  the  house  —  Father  in  heaven,  forgive  me! 

Dmitri  Kekulin  (stumbles  down  the  stairs,  drunk). 

Matrena  (covers  the  icon  with  her  apron). —  Sh  —  Dmitri.  Don't 
wake  Anushka.  Where  are  you  coming  from  so  early  ? 

Kekulin  (staggering  about,  grotesque  in  his  good-natured  humor). —  Sh  — 
Dmitri  —  I  know.     Don't  you  ever  open  your  mouth,  Dmitri.     Then  you 
are  a  good  fellow,  he  ? 

Matrena. —  Sh,  sh.     Anushka  needs  sleep. 

Kekulin. —  Let  her  sleep,  my  dear.  In  sleep  one  forgets  this  wretched 
life. 

Matrena. —  But,  father  Dmitri  —  you  are  not  home  from  work  at  this 
hour  ? 

Kekulin. —  Work  -  -  work  —  no  more  work.  Work  is  nonsense, 
unless  you  work  your  own  pockets  full.  They  do  it  at  the  stores.  Those 
rascals.  He,  Kekulin,  what  business  had  you  to  say  anything  when  they 
steal  like  magpies  ?  Is  it  your  business  if  they  make  soles  out  of  pasteboard  ? 
Are  you  going  to  wear  those  boots,  Kekulin  ?  But  your  Ivan  and  your 
Sasha,  mother  Grishewska,  they  must  wear  them  when  they  go  to  war. 
They  can  wade  through  the  snow  barefoot,  eh  ? 

Matrena  (quietly}. —  You  have  been  drinking,  father  Kekulin.  What 
has  happened  ? 

Kekulin  (with  comical  good  humor). —  They  have  snubbed  me.  They 
have  thrown  me  out.  "  Father  Polyakin,"  said  I  to  the  director,  "  you 
should  not  send  pasteboard  boots  to  the  army,  and  cartridges  without  pow- 
der, and  cloaks  without  collars.  The  soldiers  are  our  brothers,  so  to  say." 
"  Dmitri  Kekulin,"  said  he,  "  lazy  lout,  sneak,  how  do  you  know  what  I 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  131 

send  ?  "  "  I  took  note  of  it."  '  You  are  dismissed,  miserable  sot."  Ha, 
ha,  yes,  that's  what  he  said  —  dismissed,  mother  Grishewska. 

Matrena. —  So  you  are  out  of  work,  father  Dmitri  ?  What  is  to  become 
of  you?  You  have  two  children.  Oh,  what  is  to  become  of  all  of  us! 
The  men  in  war,  the  women  starving,  the  factories  closed,  and  bread  so  dear. 

Kekulin. —  And  the  rascals  stealing.  And  therefore  I  said  —  Father 
Polyakin,  said  I 

Matrena. —  But  where  is  this  to  end  ?  All  that  army  of  unemployed  pau- 
pers. Father  Dmitri,  my  Marianushka  came  a  little  while  ago.  You  knowher 
husband  is  in  the  army.  Mother,  said  she,  weeping,  if  you  don't  want  me  to 
starve,  let  me  stay  with  you.  The  owner  has  levied  on  my  toy  shop.  Should 
I  send  her  out  on  the  street  ?  Her  husband  is  in  war,  and  soon  she  will  have 
a  child.  If  we  did  not  have  Sasha  —  he  still  earns  something.  Ivan's 
factory  is  closed.  But  Sasha  cannot  furnish  bread  for  all  of  us.  Father 
Dmitri,  I  must  take  the  Savior's  image  to  the  pawnshop  (wraps  the  icon  in 
her  apron  and  presses  it  to  her  bosom).  Oh,  the  wretchedness  of  it  all 

Kekulin. —  It  is  beautiful,  beautiful,  I  say,  this  misery.  And  it  must 
become  still  greater.  Until  the  string  snaps.  I  gave  it  to  them,  Father 
Polyakin,  said  I  - 

Matrena. — -  You  have  been  foolish.  As  long  as  one  has  something  to 
eat,  one  ought  to  be  quiet,  see  nothing.  (Going  towards  the  street  door.} 
Don't  be  so  noisy,  father  Dmitri.  I  must  go  now.  Don't  wake  Anushka. 

SCENE  II 

Dmitri  Kekulin  (stares  after  MATRENA.  At  first  still  under  the  influence 
of  liquor,  he  gradually  talks  himself  into  a  good-natured  anger}. —  Yes,  yes, 
it  is  all  right,  Matrena.  To  be  quiet,  blind,  and  deaf,  to  know  nothing. 
Always  —  Don't  say  a  word.  Close  your  eyes  and  shut  your  mouth.  No! 
Won't  do  any  more.  I  will  tear  open  my  eyes  wide  (stands  astride  and  stares 
with  wide  open  eyes.  Then  looks  around  the  room).  Then  I  shall  see 
everything.  Stolen  army  boots  and  stolen  army  cloaks.  Big  and  little 
thieves.  And  the  biggest  thief  of  all  Pan  Di-rec-tor  Pol-ya-kin  (with 
clenched  fists).  I  shall  go  to  the  Newsky  Prospect  and  stand  up  in  the 
square  and  shout:  Polyakin  is  a  thief.  A  low  thief.  He  has  sent  eight 
wagonloads  of  pasteboard  boots  to  our  freezing  soldiers.  Pasteboard  boots. 
Oh,  oh  —  And  then  the  people  will  stop  and  say:  What  ?  A  thief, Polyakin 
has  been  stealing  ?  Give  it  to  him,  thrash  him  (he  rubs  his  hands  in  glee). 
And  then  you  will  get  it,  Polyakin.  Polyakin,  come,  for  I  want  to  talk  with 
you  (places  a  chair  in  front  of  him).  Polyakin,  that's  you,  and  here  am  I, 


132 


THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 


Dmitri  Kekulin.  Polyakin,  you  drink,  Polyakin,  you  are  a  lazy  lout. 
Polyakin,  you  lie,  cheat,  and  steal.  Polyakin,  you  are  a  miserable  villain. 
(Grabs  a  footstool  and  throws  it  against  the  back  of  the  chair.)  Thus  will  I 
speak  with  you,  Pan  Di-rec-tor  Pol-ya-kin. 


SCENE  III 
DMITRI  KEKULIN,  MARIANUSHKA,  GRISHA  . 

Marianushka  (awakened  by  the  noise  pokes  her  head  through  the  cur- 
tains^ unspeakable  terror  in  her  black  eyes). —  Father  Dmitri,  what  is  the 
matter  ? 

Kekulin  (grinding  with  embarrassment).  I  have  only  given  Pan  Di- 
rec-tor  Pol-ya-kin  a  slap  in  the  face. 

Grisha  (from  right;  delicate,  pretty). —  Are  you  two  fighting  ? 

Kekulin. —  No,  my  dove.     I  don't  even  think  of  righting. 

Grisha. —  But  it  sounded  so.  The  chair  on  the  floor  (running  up  to 
MARIANUSHKA,  who  steps  from  the  alcove).  Dear  Anushka,  you  have  been 
sleeping  and  he  disturbed  you  ?  Shame  on  you,  Dmitri. 

Kekulin. —  No,  no,  I  should  be  ashamed.  I,  who  gave  Pan  Director 
Polyakin  a  slap,  so  he  calls,  Dmitri,  spare  my  life  ? 

Marianushka  (wearily  sits  down  on  the  bench  by  the  stove). —  How 
dark  and  dreary  it  is  in  here,  how  close.  I  am  chilly. 

Grisha. —  Come,  lean  against  the  stove.     I  will  stir  the  fire. 

Kekulin. —  That's  the  way  of  you  women.  Yes,  yes,  that's  your  way. 
You  know  that  things  must  change.  And  after  the  state  has  been  cured  of  its 
ills,  then  you  think  nothing  of  it  (goes  to  left).  I  am  hungry  and  thirsty.  Is 
Matasha  there,  the  little  dove  (looks  into  the  room  to  left).  Dark  and  cold. 
Taken  flight.  Must  see  what  Possilowitsch  is  doing  (goes  up  the  stairs). 

Marianushka. —  Dmitri,  don't  drink  so  much.  You  already  owe 
Possilowitsch. 

Kekulin  (at  the  door). —  Nitschewo.  Won't  hurt  Anuskha.  When  we 
have  overturned  the  state,  when  I  am  at  the  top  and  Possilowitsch  at  the 
bottom.  That's  so,  Anushka,  that's  so.  (Exit.  The  darkness  grows. 
Through  the  window  comes  the  light  of  a  gas  lantern.  The  fire  in  the  stove 
flares  up.) 

Marianushka. —  Oh,  drink,  drink,  cursed  drink!    (Sighs.) 

Grisha. —  It  is  a  curse.  (Both  are  silent.  Some  people  hurry  past  on 
the  street.) 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  133 

Grisha. —  Oh,  dear,  there  they  aie  already.     Oh,  no,  not  they. 

Marianushka. —  Ivan  and  Sasha  ?  Oh,  you  may  have  to  wait  long  for 
them.  They  have  to  step  up  one  by  one.  Then  they  are  measured,  weighed, 
examined,  turned  and  turned  around  like  —  like  — cattle  chosen  for 
slaughter. 

Grisha. —  Marianushka,  don't  say  that. 

Marianushka. —  Grisha,  I  have  seen  how  they  were  dumped  into  the 
railroad  cars  when  they  wanted  to  turn  back  to  look  at  their  wives.  I  could 
not  even  shake  hands  with  Petrushka. 

Grisha. —  They  were  pushed  and  knocked  about,  were  they  ? 

Marianushka. —  Yes,  with  the  butt  of  the  muskets.  And  the  music 
struck  up  a  tune  and  the  drums  were  beating  so  we  could  not  hear  their  wails 
and  the  last  word  they  called  to  us. 

Grisha. —  That  should  not  be. 

Marianushka. —  And  when  they  have  entered  those  cars  and  the  trains 
start,  then  they  are  gone.  Grisha,  they  never  return.  Never.  They  are 
all  shot,  every  man.  Oh,  Petrushka!  I  have  seen  him  die,  Grisha.  He  will 
not  return  (breaks  into  sobs}.  Do  you  believe  in  dreams,  Grisha  ?  (Grisha 
silently  shakes  her  head.}  I  have  had  such  bad  dreams.  I  believe  in  them. 
I  have  seen  him  die. 

Grisha  (jails  upon  her  knees  before  her). —  You  saw  him  die  —  Pe- 
trushka ? 

Marianushka. —  I  saw  him  lie  on  the  snow.  The  blood  was  such  a 
bright  red  on  the  white  snow.  In  his  stiff  hands  he  held  the  little  silver 
cross  which  I  gave  to  him  the  last  night. 

Grisha. —  Oh,  stop,  I  cannot  bear  this,  Marianushka. 

Marianushka. —  I  firmly  believe  that  he  is  dead  now.  Why  did  they 
have  to  take  him  from  me  ?  He  did  no  harm  to  any  one.  I  am  going  to 
claim  him  from  him  who  sends  them  all  to  bitter  death.  They  take  all. 
One  after  another.  And  to-day  it  is  the  turn  of  Ivan  and  Sasha. 

Grisha. —  And  Sasha  ?     No,  not  Sasha  ? 

Marianushka. —  Why  hot  Sasha  ?  Why  not  him  ?  Because  you  love 
him,  unhappy  girl  ? 

Grisha. —  Marianushka! 

Marianushka  (sighing  deeply}. —  That  is  the  worst  of  it,  they  kill  our 
men  and  kill  us  with  them.  You  are  so  young.  Be  wise. 

Grisha  (weeping}. —  Anushka! 

Marianushka. —  It  is  so,  depend  upon  it.     They  all  have  their  turn. 

Grisha. —  I  will  pray  for  him,  I  will  also  pray  for  Petrushka. 


i34  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Marianushka. —  Whether  you  pray  or  not,  they  will  take  him  from  you, 
as  they  have  taken  mine  from  me. 

Grisha. —  But  he  may  come  back,  your  Petrushka. 

Marianushka. —  He  will  never  come,  he  will  never  see  his  child 
(weeping).  It  will  stretch  out  its  little  arms  in  vain  and  call  its  father. 

Grisha. —  Oh,  no,  no,  no.     God  will  not  suffer  such  wrong. 

Marianushka. —  God  ?  Grisha,  if  things  were  going  God's  way  there 
would  never  be  such  a  thing  as  war. 

Grisha. —  Sasha  must  not  go  —  he  must  not. 

Marianushka. —  You  are  both  young,  and  —  you  are  still  innocent. 
(In  an  undertone)  When  love  has  blessed  you  (with  a  hard  voice)  — then  you 
will  know  what  misfortune  is.  Not  before. 


SCENE  IV 
MARIANUSHKA,  GRISHA,  PETER,  MATRENA 

Peter  (enters  from  street,  quiet,  depressed}. —  Everything  still  in  the  dark  ? 
(Approaches  the  two  women.}  There  you  sit  and  say  not  a  word  ?  You  have 
really  scared  me. 

Marianushka  (bitter). —  No  reason  to  be  afraid  of  us.  You  must  have 
a  bad  conscience,  Peter  ? 

Peter  (heaves  a  deep  sigh). —  I  am  so  sad 

Marianushka. —  Who  is  not  sad  at  such  times  ?  If  you  men  begin 
to  complain,  what  shall  we  say  ?  What  is  your  trouble  ? 

Peter. —  My  paper,  too,  has  been  stopped  to-night.  No  chance  to 
earn  another  kopek. 

Marianushka. —  The  same  old  story.     Why  was  it  done  ? 

Peter  (shrugging  his  shoulders'). —  I  suppose  the  war  news  are  not  to 
become  known  to  the  people. 

Marianushka. —  Yes,  you  are  no  longer  trusted. 

Peter  (bitter). —  Great  victory  of  our  armies,  five  kopeks! 

Marianushka. —  And  three  days  later :  The  truth  about  the  last  battle  — 
five  kopeks! 

Peter. —  Yes,  yes  (sighs).     Grisha,  you  too  are  sad  ? 

Grisha. —  Let  me  alone. 

Peter. —  Oh.      (Goes  to  left  despondently.} 

Marianushka. —  Yes,  yes  —  does  he  know  his  father  is  out  of  work  since 
to-day  ? 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  135 

Grisha  (staring  before  her}. —  I  don't  know  (suddenly  jumping  up)  and 
I  say  no,  he  shall  not  go.  They  will  have  to  drag  me  along,  I  won't  let  him. 

Marianushka  (smiling  sorrowfully). —  Oh,  don't  delude  yourself.  He 
will  be  shot  on  the  spot  if  he  refuses  to  go. 

Grisha  (horrified}. —  Is  that  what  they  do  ? 

SCENE  V 
MARIANUSHKA,  GRISHA,  MATRENA 

Marianushka  (jestingly). —  Mother  dear,  we  thought  that  you  had 
eloped! 

Matrena  (mumbling). —  One  ruble  and  thirty  kopeks. 

Marianushka  (with  scornful  laugh). —  One  ruble  and  thirty  kopeks  ? 

Matrena. —  For  the  beautiful  icon!  My  father  had  given  it  to  me  and 
I  held  it  sacred  all  these  many  years.  Now  it  is  gone.  For  one  ruble  and 
thirty  kopeks.  (Looks  at  the  money  in  her  hand.}  But  why  are  you  still  in 
the  dark  ? 

Marianushka. —  We  were  chattering,  mother  dear,  of  this  thing  and 
another  (lights  a  candle}. 

Matrena. —  And  the  boys  ?     Are  they  not  back  yet  ? 

Marianushka. —  Perhaps  they  kept  them  right  away. 

Matrena. —  Kept  them  ? 

Grisha. —  No,  that  is  impossible  (almost  simultaneously}] 

Marianushka. —  Well,  I  only  thought  so. 

Matrena. —  Are  you  in  earnest,  Marianushka  ? 

Marianushka. —  Yes  —  I  can't  explain  it  any  other  way.  Though  they 
should  have  allowed  them  to  take  leave. 

Grisha. —  But  you  don't  even  know  whether  they  have  been  accepted. 
Perhaps  they  are  both  unfit. 

Marianushka. —  Don't  you  believe  that. 

Matrena. —  But  they  will  surely  let  them  bid  their  old  mother  good  by  ? 
I  want  to  give  them  my  blessing,  as  I  gave  it  to  Petrushka. 

Marianushka. —  It  will  help  them  too. 

Grisha. —  They  will  soon  come,  mother  Matrena.  You  can  depend 
upon  it. 

Matrena. —  It  is  time  to  prepare  supper.  They  will  be  hungry  when 
they  come. 

Grisha  (calling  into  room  to  left).  — Peterkin,  Peterkin,  come  here. 

Peter. —  Grisha.     What  is  it  ? 


136  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Grisha. —  Peterkin,  won't  you  go  marketing  for  mother  Matrena  ? 

Peter  (softly). —  If  you  say  so,  I  will  do  it  to  please  you. 

Matrena  (gives  him  the  money). —  Twenty  kopeks'  worth  of  bread, 
twenty  kopeks'  bacon  —  Marianushka,  is  there  still  some  tea  ? 

Marianushka. —  No,  mother. 

Matrena. —  Fifteen  kopeks'  worth  of  tea.     That  is  fifty-five  kopeks. 

Grisha. —  Hurry,  Peterkin. 

Matrena. —  Yes,  children,  these  are  wretchedly  hard  times.  (Counts 
the  money.)  Seventy-five  kopeks  are  left  (sighs). 

Marianushka  (changing  the  subject). —  Did  he  take  it  right  away  ? 

Matrena. —  The  icon  ?  Most  readily,  child.  He  made  a  solemn  face 
and  said  it  was  not  worth  eighty  kopeks.  But  I  know  him.  "  Pawlo- 
vitsch,"  said  I,  "two  rubles  or  I  shall  take  it  back."  "Two  rubles,"  he  cried, 
and  looked  furiously  at  me.  '  Why  don't  you  ask  ten  while  you  are  about 
it  ?  "  "  But  I  must  have  two.  It  is  gilt  and  of  good  workmanship.  You 
will  easily  get  four  rubles  for  it."  "  One  ruble,"  he  said.  "  Pawlovitsch," 
said  I,  "  you  know  what  I  said."  "  One  ruble  and  thirty  kopeks."  '  Take 
it,"  I  said.  "  It  is  from  my  dead  father."  "  That  won't  make  it  worth  one 
kopek  more  to  me,"  cried  he,  "  even  if  it  were  your  great-grandfather!  " 
He  threw  the  money  on  the  table  and  laughed.  (She  wipes  a  tear.) 

Marianushka. —  The  old  rascal! 

Grisha. —  He  lives  on  our  poverty. 

Matrena. —  Yes,  this  is  his  harvest  time.  His  shop  was  crowded.  I 
had  to  wait  a  half  an  hour  before  my  turn  came.  Sonja  was  there,  too;  she 
pawned  some  bedding.  Ninety  five  kopeks  was  what  she  got.  She  was 
crying  to  break  one's  heart. 

Marianushka  (with  eagerness). —  Has  she  bad  news  ? 

Matrena. —  She  read  it  in  the  paper. 

Marianushka. —  In  the  paper  ?     He  was  drafted  with  Petrushka! 

Grisha. —  And  with  Andrew. 

Marianushka. —  If  one  could  only  get  the  paper.  Some  one  must 
read  it. 

Peter  (returning  and  laying  down  three  packages). —  Here,  mother 
Matrena,  bread,  bacon,  tea. 

Matrena. —  Thanks,  sonny,  thanks.     You  can  eat  with  us  afterwards. 

Grisha. —  I  too  must  get  supper  (hesitating  and  looking  towards  the 
door).  Have  you  seen  any  one  in  the  street,  Peterkin  ?  Were  Ivan  and 
Sasha  not  yet  in  sight  ? 

Peter. —  I  saw  nobody. 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  137 

SCENE  VI 
GRISHA,  MARIANUSHKA,  MATRENA,  PETER,  IVAN,  SASHA 

Gnsha  (trembling  with  excitement}. —  There  they  are  —  they  are  com- 
ing! Anushka,  I  have  not  the  heart  to  ask  them. 

Mananushka. —  You  need  not  ask  —  look  at  their  faces. 

Matrena  (stammering). —  My  children  —  my  dear  children  - 

Ivan  (big,  wild-eyed,  with  grim  irony). —  Good  evening,  mother.  Good 
evening,  all.  Two  newly  appointed  champions  of  the  fatherland.  To- 
morrow they  will  be  dumped  into  a  train  and  shipped  to  Siberia.  Well, 
what's  the  use  of  howling  about  it  ?  When  you  are  out  of  work  you  might  as 
well  serve  as  target  for  cannons, —  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing  at  the  end. 
Well,  mother,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? 

Matrena. —  They  will  send  you  to  the  front  ?  You,  Ivan,  and  Sasha, 
also  ? 

Marianushka  (with  a  laugh  of  despair). —  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ?  They 
will  all  have  their  turn. 

Gnsha  (takes  the  hand  of  SASHA  who  has  been  silent). —  Sasha,  I  won't 
Jeave  you,  Sasha,  speak  —  but  one  word.  They  dare  not  force  you.  They 
dare  not  send  you  to  die.  Why  should  they  choose  you  —  you  ? 

Marianushka. —  Why  any  one  ?  Has  any  one  of  them  done  harm  to 
another  ?  Are  not  people  tormenting  one  another  enough  as  it  is  ? 

Ivan. —  It  is  laughable.  No,  it  is  maddening.  What  have  I  to  do 
with  the  enemy  ?  Has  the  enemy  done  something  to  me,  to  you  ?  I  could 
have  laughed  into  their  faces,  the  doctor,  the  general,  the  colonel,  and  who- 
ever they  were,  when  the  one  at  the  table  said  with  his  snarling  voice,  Ivan 
Grishewski.  Accepted.  Present  himself  to-morrow.  Ha,  ha,  what  for  ? 
To  kill  people  ? 

Marianushka  (horror stricken). —  To  die,  Ivan!  To  fertilize  the  earth 
with  your  blood  —  Out  there  in  the  world  —  beyond  Siberia  - 

Matrena. —  Sasha,  my  son,  you  are  silent,  you  say  not  a  word.  My 
boy,  my  boy! 

Sasha  (quietly). —  Poor  mother! 

Grisha. —  Sasha,  they  shall  not  kill  you.  I  am  going  to  pray  for  you. 
I  would  do  something  to  save  you.  Tell  me,  are  you  afraid  ?  Do  not  fear 
that  you  will  not  return  ? 

Sasha  (sadly). —  Grisha,  and  what  if  they  do  kill  me,  what  is  there 
about  it  ?  But  that  I  shall  kill  —  I  —  (visionary).  Before  us  lie  the  ranks 
of  the  enemy.  You  rush  upon  them.  They  stare  at  you  in  terror.  Their 


138  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

very  eyes  seem  to  cry  out,  Mercy!  have  mercy!  I  —  I  too  have  a  mother, 
a  —  Grisha!  And  you  pierce  them  with  the  sharp  cold  bayonet,  pierce  their 
breast,  and  they  break  down  —  and  you  keep  on  striking  them  down,  mur- 
dering, murdering  (terrified}.  I  will  not,  I  could  not  forget  it,  that  I  had 
taken  men's  lives.  Life  is  sacred  —  and  all  have  a  mother  and  a  sister  who 
are  without  bread,  who  innocently  fall  victims  to  war. 

Matrena. —  My  child! 

Grisha. —  O  Sasha! 

Ivan  (to  SASHA). —  Talk  on,  clench  your  fists  (laughing),  why  you  can't 
even  do  that!  Go  and  pray  to  your  God.  That  is  all  you  can  do;  He  will 
help  you. 

Sasha  (quietly). —  Dear  brother,  God  does  not  want  war.  God  is 
good.  God  means  that  you  should  not  do  unto  another  as  you  would  not  be 
done  by. 

Grisha. —  Yes,  God  wants  men  to  love  one  another.  Sasha,  I  will  die 
for  you.  They  shall  drag  me  with  you.  They  shall  kill  me. 

Sasha  (overwhelmed  with  emotion).  —  Grisha,  and  you  mother,  you  two 
—  Grisha,  you  feel  it  that  I  must  love  all  my  fellow-men.     I  cannot  hate  - 
how  can  I  kill  ? 

Marianushka. —  Dreamer. 

Ivan. —  Visionary.  Of  what  use  is  your  refusal  ?  Take  the  gun  into 
your  hand  and  tell  them:  You  have  made  us  paupers.  Why?  Because 
ou  who  make  war  think  only  of  yourself.  What  do  you  care  about  us  ? 
e  are  the  fertilizer  used  to  fatten  the  soil  for  you.  We  get  the  gold  and 
silver  from  the  mines  for  you.  We  drudge  for  you  in  the  factories.  We  kill 
your  enemies.  What  for  ?  So  you  can  revel  in  luxury.  You  —  the  few. 
But  we  are  tired  of  it.  We  shall  turn  our  muskets  and  our  sabres  against  you. 

Marianushka. —  How  ridiculous  you  are,  Ivan!  You  would  not  dare 
to  utter  a  sound.  You  will  meekly  submit  and  say  not  a  word  when  to- 
morrow comes. 

Ivan  (laughingly). —  Well,  would  it  be  of  any  use  ?  I  shall  fight  like  — 
like  (furiously)  — they  will  have  to  suffer  for  it,  those  enemies!  I'll  beat 
them  into  a  jelly  - 

Marianushka. —  Well,  there  you  are.  You'll  make  a  good  soldier! 
'Twas  only  your  first  impulse  that  made  you  revolt.  But  that's  over.  And 
you,  Sasha  ?  Will  you  suffer  them  to  take  from  us  our  husbands,  to  rob 
our  children  of  their  fathers  ?  Oh,  that  we  should  be  born  only  to  usher  into 
the  world  new  creatures  of  misery  - 

Sasha  (struggling  with  himself). —  I  —  I — I  will  quietly  tell  them 
what  I  think 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  139 

Grisha. —  You  will  tell  them  that  God  does  not  want  us  to  take  another's 
life.     That  we  should  love  our  neighbor.     Love  all  —  all  - 


SCENE  VII 
The  preceding.     DMITRI  KEKULIN 

Kekulin  (enters  staggering). —  Ha,  ha,  ha  —  Ha,  ha  —  Matrena,  do  you 
know  what  Stepan  Possilowitsch  said  to  me  ?  '  You  are  a  capital  fellow, 
Dmitri  Kekulin.  Did  you  give  it  to  Pan  Director  Polyakin  ?  Did  you  tell 
him  what  you  thought  of  him  ?  You  are  a  capita,  joker,  Dmitri  Kekulin." 
No,  he  did  not  say  joker,  capital  fellow,  said  he.  Ha,  ha,  Ivan  —  Sasha  — 
Ha,  ha  —  yep  —  do  you  know,  to-morrow  you  get  a  pair  of  pasteboard  boots 
and  cloaks  with  the  collars  stolen.  You  can  wrap  up  in  them  —  when  the 
snow  comes  and  the  rain  - 

Matrena. —  Be  quiet,  Dmitri.  You  are  drunk.  Ivan,  Sasha,  you 
must  be  hungry.  You  must  eat.  Here  is  fresh  bread  —  butter  —  bacon. 

Kekulin. —  Did  you  pawn  your  icon,  old  woman  ?  Ha,  ha,  did  the 
Savior  give  you  bread  for  it  ?  Ivan,  do  you  know  what  I  said  to  Polyakin  ? 
You  are  a  heavy  fellow,  Polyakin,  said  I. 

Sasha  (pale,  grieved). —  Mother,  did  you  pawn  the  sacred  image? 
Mother,  you  did  it  for  a  few  crusts  of  bread  ? 

Matrena  (helpless}. —  Do  you  want  to  eat,  Sasha  ?  Do  you  want  your 
supper,  Ivan  ? 

Sasha. —  Mother,  can  I  eat  with  the  tears  that  I  would  weep  ? 

Kekulin. —  Yes,  Ivan,  Pan  Director,  said  I,  I  am  going  to  quit.  You 
are  a  villain,  said  I  —  I  cannot  respect  you,  I,  Dmitri  Kekulin. 

Grisha  (angrily). —  Be  silent  —  Don't  you  see  that  we  feel  as  if  our 
hearts  would  break  ? 


SCENE  VIII 
The  preceding.     NATASHA.     Later  SIPJAGIN 

Natasha  (pretty,  bold,  enters  during  KEKULIN'S  last  speech). —  Well, 
father  — you  have  a  nice  jag. 

Kekulin. —  Sure  I  have.  Held  up  a  light  to  Pan  Polyakin,  Di-rec-tor 
Pol-ya-kin.  Where  have  you  been,  my  dove  ? 


140  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Matrena. —  You  have  not  been  around  all  day,  Natasha. 

Natasha  (pertly). —  Been  loafing.  What  use  could  I  do  ?  I've  been 
in  the  city.  It  was  great.  Ha,  ha,  even  my  hat  was  smashed.  I  got  into  a 
crowd.  Workingmen  and  soldiers  were  fighting.  There  were  some  dead. 
Brrrr!  Blood  was  flowing  in  the  street.  What  of  it.  I'll  buy  me  a  new  hat 
(laughs}.  But  gracious,  what  long  faces  you  are  making.  Why  can't  you 
be  jolly  ?  Life  is  short.  Do  you  know  what  I  have  ?  (Tinkles  some  coins.} 
Rubles,  bright  rubles. 

Kekulin. —  Your  old  father  needs  them. 

Ivan  (rising). —  Natasha,  where  did  you  get  them  ? 

Natasha  (laughing). —  Stole  them. 

Ivan. —  You  lie. 

Natasha  (laughing). —  Peter,  come  here.  Get  some  whiskey  (pulls 
IVAN'S  hair).  You  can't  live  without  it,  mad  Ivan.  (Caressingly)  Peterkin, 
Peterkin ! 

Peter  (curtly). —  I  won't,  I  won't  get  whiskey. 

Kekulin. —  What,  Peter  —  you  dare  to  refuse  ?  Won't  go  for  whiskey  ? 
I'll  teach  you  to  hurry,  Peterkin. 

Peter  (takes  the  money). —  You  are  a  bad  girl,  Natasha.  Don't  you  see 
what  is  the  matter  with  Sasha  and  Ivan  ?  (Exit  depressed.} 

Natasha. —  That's  so.  Gracious,  I  had  forgotten.  So  they  have 
taken  you  ?  That's  splendid,  Ivan!  I  wonder  how  you  look  in  a  uniform. 
(Sings  while  she  puts  her  arms  about  his  neck.} 

My  sweetheart  is  a  trooper, 

Ho,  ho! 
In  uniform  with  braid  of  gold, 

Ho,  ho! 

Ivan  (angrily). —  Natasha,  stop  singing.  Aren't  you  sorry  that  I  am 
going  ?  You  seem  glad  ?  Probably  you  will  soon  have  another  in  my  place  ? 
And  to  such  a  girl  one  loses  his  heart! 

Natasha  (laughing}. —  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  You  must  have  had  some 
reason  ?  (Changing  her  mood:  alluringly.}  And  yet  I  love  you,  you  wild 
man.  Just  look  at  Grisha,  how  jealous  she  is! 

Marianushka  (threatening). —  Leave  that  girl  alone,  you. 

Grisha. —  Let  her  say  what  she  wants,  I  don't  care. 

Natasha. —  Wait,  you  black  witch ! 

Kekulin  (seeing  PETER  bring  the  whiskey). —  O  darling  Peterkin, 
darling  Peterkin,  give  me  the  bottle.  There  it  is  best  taken  care  of.  (They 
have  placed  glasses  on  the  table.} 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  141 

Natasha  (goading  them  on). —  Drink,  Ivan.  Be  merry.  Be,  jolly 
all  of  you.  It's  the  last  evening.  Let's  celebrate. 

Matrena. —  Oh,  children,  my  children.  My  heart  is  so  heavy,  I  could 
weep  —  weep. 

Natasha. —  Pah,  weep!     Let's  laugh  and  drink  (sings). 

Fill  again,  fill  the  glass, 

Drown  your  care  and  sorrow, 
Life  is  short,  let  it  pass, 

Think  not  of  to-morrow. 

Ivan  (wildly). —  Do  away  with  it,  get  rid  of  life.  Come  what  may  — 
I  don't  care!  Mother  dear,  don't  grieve.  Nothing  lost.  Besides  —  not 
all  bullets  hit  the  mark.  Your  health,  Dmitri,  old  wreck!  (Keeps  on 
drinking.} 

Natasha. —  Sasha,  my  dear,  won't  you  drink  ? 

Grisha. —  Sasha,   don't  drink,   please. 

Natasha  (sings). — 

A  glass  with  liquor,  sparkling  green, 

Hurrah, 
What  tastes  as  sweet,  has  brighter  sheen, 

And  makes  the  heart  as  gay  ? 

Sasha  (seizes  the  glass  and  hurls  it  to  the  -floor). —  Miserable  stuff! 
(Rests  his  head  on  his  hand.} 

Matrena  (caressing  his  hand}. —  Oh,  child,  child!  What  is  it  you  are 
planning  ? 

Kekulin  (steps  up  to  SASHA). —  Jolly,  Sasha,  ha,  ha!  Do  as  I  did  with 
Pan  Polyakin.  Polyakin,  old  fellow,  said  I,  I  quit.  I  don't  care  to  witness 
any  longer  your  stealing  and  your  cheating.  Go  to  the  devil. 

Ivan. —  Your  health,  Polyakin,  Pan  Polyakin — your  health! 

Kekulin  (grinning  and  mocking  the  director). —  Thank  you,  Pan  Polya- 
kin. Go  to  the  devil  —  you  are  dismissed. 

SCENE  IX 

The  preceding.     SIPJAGIN 
SlPJAGlN  enters:  wooden  leg,  martial  mien 

Sipjagin. —  Well,  it  seems  you  are  jolly  here  to-night.  What's  that, 
Ivan  ? 


i42  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Grisha. —  Father,  are  you  coming  from  the  factory  ?  Are  you  tired 
and  hungry  ?  I'll  quickly  get  something  for  you  to  eat. 

Ivan. —  Celebrating  a  parting  feast,  father  Jacob.  To-morrow  we  are 
going  to  the  front.  Food  for  cannons. 

Sipjagin  (enters}. —  Ahem,  so,  so.  Well,  well.  (Strokes  his  mustache.} 
Well,  there  must  be  soldiers.  I  have  been  one.  And  so  is  my  Andrew. 

Marianushka. —  And  you  returned  a  cripple! 

Sipjagin. —  Why,  yes,  I  was  at  Plevna,  in  the  year  '79.  Boys,  I  tell  you, 
those  cannons  howled,  too. 

Marianushka  (with  grim  irony). —  And  where  did  you  leave  your  leg, 
Sipjagin  ? 

Sipjagin. —  Well,  if  you  want  to  hear  that  story  —  just  as  I  started  to 
cut  one  of  those  Turks  across  the  ears  with  my  sabre,  a  bomb  from  the  fort 
struck  him.  His  own  brothers  did  it,  and  I  never  saw  him  again  —  nor 
my  leg.  That's  so.  It  is  not  exactly  pleasant.  But  there  must  be  soldiers, 
I  suppose. 

Sasha  (rising). —  Why  must  there  be  soldiers,  father  Jacob?  What 
if  they  all  said,  we  won't  ?  What  would  happen  to  them  ?  Would  there 
still  be  war  ?  If  no  one  is  willing  to  be  a  soldier,  will  there  be  war  ? 

Sipjagin. —  Well,  well,  you  see  nobody  does  that.  It  would  be  non- 
sense (drinks).  Let  us  drink  to  a  happy  reunion. 

Marianushka  (ferociously). —  A  reunion?  Why,  won't  they  come 
back  ? 

Sipjagin. —  Don't  be  foolish.  It  may  be  bad  enough  out  there,  but 
at  the  end  you  boys  will  come  out  of  it  all  as  victors,  just  as  we  did.  (Sings.) 

On  the  battlefield  of  Plevna, 

Where  we  gave  the  Turks  a  beating, 

With  a  thousand  cannon  and  three  - 
Till  we  saw  them  all  retreating, 

Boys  I  tell  you,  golly  —  gee ! 
That's  what  I  call  victory! 

Sasha  (interrupts  him  brusquely).  —  No,  no !  I  won't  go  along.  I  won't. 
One  must  make  the  beginning. 

Kekulin. —  That's  right,  one  must  tell  them.  So  did  I,  Polyakin,  said 
I  —  villain  - 

Ivan. —  Shut  up,  you  old  ape,  with  your  everlasting  Polyakin. 

Sasha. —  Mother,  I  said  I  won't  go  —  let  me  alone.  They  can  drag 
me  out  of  here,  but  I  shall  not  go  willingly. 

Matrena. —  Sasha,  my  Sasha,  you  will  make  all  of  us  unhappy. 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  143 

Sasha. —  Are  we  not  unhappy  already,  mother  ?  Can  things  be  worse 
than  they  are  ?  What  can  they  do  to  you  if  I  refuse  ? 

Marianushka. —  Right  you  are.  Let  them  do  to  us  whatever  they 
want. 

Gnsha. —  Sasha,  Sasha! 

Natasha  (to  IVAN). —  How  she  loves  him,  the  little  dove  ?     (Laughs.} 

Kekulin. —  That  is  what  I  say.     Children,  it  is  the  best  thing  to  do. 

Ivan  (furiously). —  What  is  the  best  thing  ?  You  were  saying  nothing, 
old  hogshead. 

Matrena  (to  SASHA). —  Son,  my  son,  in  the  name  of  our  Savior,  don't 
do  that.  See,  Petrushka  has  gone  too,  and  Andrew  and  the  rest. 

Marianushka. —  Sonja  won't  return  —  Petrushka  and  Andrew  won't 
come  back  alive.  So  it  is  all  the  same,  whether  one  is  shot  here  or  there. 

Peter  (softly  to  IVAN  and  NATASHA). —  Petrushka  —  (breathless} 
Petrushka  —  is  —  (whispers}. 

Ivan  (aloud}. —  You  lie! 

Peter. —  I  heard  it.     At  Possilowitsch's  place  I  heard  it. 

Marianushka. —  What  is  it  you  are  whispering  there  ? 

Peter.—  We  ?     Nothing,  Marianushka. 

Sasha. —  Yes,  Marianushka,  you  are  right.  I  shall  refuse.  I  cannot 
see  a  beast  suffer  and  shall  I  shoot  down  cold-bloodedly  men  whom  I  don't 
know  ?  The  sons  of  mothers  ?  The  fathers  of  children  ?  I  cannot  do  it. 
I  will  not. 

Matrena  (to  NATASHA,  who  has  whispered  to  her  like  one  petrified  with 
terror). —  What  is  it  you  say,  Natasha?  Petrushka  is  —  really  —  Oh, 
oh,  oh  - 

Sipjagin. —  I  must  say  when  we  were  young  we  looked  upon  it  differ- 
ently. We  were  not  such  cowards.  At  Plevna 

Sasha  (starting}. —  Cowards,  cowards  —  you  say?  (Wants  to  rush 
upon  SIPJAGIN,  but  controls  his  temper.}  Pardon  me,  father  Jacob,  but  I 
won't  be  called  a  coward.  Grisha,  come,  don't  cry. 

Grisha. —  O  Sasha,  Sasha  - 

Ivan. —  It  is  useless,  brother.  If  all  did  the  same  and  threw  away  their 
muskets  and  said:  If  you  can't  agree  why  don't  you  fight  it  out?  We 
don't  care  to  be  your  cat's  paws. 

Sasha. —  The  time  will  come,  Ivan,  when  all  will  feel  so.  But  one  must 
make  the  beginning. 

Sipjagin.—  Sasha,  don't  talk  nonsense.  Think  of  the  fate  of  the 
fatherland. 

Marianushka. —  Fatherland  ?     Fatherland  ?     What  is  that  drivel  about 


i44  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

fatherland  ?  What  is  that,  anyway  ?  What  do  you  call  fatherland  ?  The 
country  that  kills  our  fathers  ?  I  tell  you  if  my  child  should  see  the  light  of 
this  world,  I  will  teach  it  to  call  father!  Before  the  palaces  where  they  live 
that  have  sent  out  its  father,  it  shall  stand  and  call,  Give  me  back  my  father. 
You  have  broken  my  mother's  heart.  Curse  upon  you! 

Matrena. —  Marianushka,  Marianushka,  you  are  beside  yourself. 

Marianushka  (collapses  upon  the  bench  and  lays  her  head  upon  the 
table). 

Matrena. —  Oh  —  Oh  —  if  she  knew  —  if  she  knew 

Marianushka  (looking  up}. —  If  I  knew  what,  mother  ? 

Matrena  (weeping). —  Oh,  nothing  —  oh,  nothing. 

Ivan  (whispering). —  Why  can't  you  keep  quiet,  mother. 

Marianushka  (slowly). —  Mother,  what  has  happened  to  Petrushka  ? 
(Pause.) 

Matrena.  —  Ask  —  Ask  Peter. 

Peter  (fearfully). —  I  don't  know.     I  know7  nothing,  I  said  nothing. 

Marianushka  (with  a  loud  and  hard  voice). —  What  has  happened  to 
Petrushka  ? 

Ivan. —  You  fool,  why  did  you  have  to  talk  ? 

Peter. —  I  am  not  a  fool. 

Marianushka  (stands  before  him). — '-  Speak  —  speak. 

Peter  (with  a  sudden  obstinate  resolve}. — It's  in  the  paper.  Possilowitsch 
had  the  paper. 

Marianushka. —  What  is  in  the  paper  ? 

Peter. —  There  it  is  —  read  yourself. 

Marianushka  (takes  the  paper). —  In  the  paper  ?  (With  sudden  humili- 
ation.) Who  —  who  will  read  to  me  what  the  paper  says  ?  (She  goes  from 
one  to  the  other).  You  ?  You  ?  No  one  ?  You  read  it  for  me.  Please, 
please  do! 

Kekulin  (who  alone  has  continued  to  drink). —  Be  merry,  children. 
Polyakin  got  his  share  all  right. 

Marianushka  (to  SIPJAGIN). —  You!  You  can  read.  Oh,  I  beg  you, 
father  Jacob. 

Sipjagin  (takes  the  paper.     Silence.) 

Peter  (who  steps  up  and  points  to  a  place  in  the  paper). —  There  it  is. 

Sipjagin  (reads). —  Yes,  by  all  the  saints!     (Stops.) 

Marianushka. —  Read!     Read! 

Sipjagin. —  Petrushka  Koljakow  —  Department  Petersburg  —  Third 
Brigade  of  Sharpshooters  —  Eleventh  Company.  Shot  in  the  abdomen  — 
dead. 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  145 

Marianushka  (softly;  pale;  absently). —  I  knew  it.  I  knew  it  —  no, 
no,  no  —  it  cannot  be.  Father  Jacob,  that  is  a  mistake. 

Sipjagin  (moved}. —  Oh,  yes,  it  is  here. 

Marianushka  (with  an  outcry). —  Dead  —  that  cannot  be  true  —  not 
that  word.  You  make  a  mistake.  You  read  a  wrong  line.  You  did  not 
see  right,  father  Jacob. 

Sipjagin. —  Yes,  yes,  Marianushka,  he  is  dead. 

Matrena  (helpless,  broken). —  Oh,  oh  —  oh 

Marianushka. —  No,  no,  no  —  I  —  what  am  I  doing  —  I  want  to  go 
to  him.  I  must.  He  is  suffering  —  he  calls  me,  Marianushka,  Marian- 
ushka, and  I  am  not  there!  (All  are  silent.} 

Grisha  (weeping  aloud}. —  Marianushka! 

Marianushka. —  Oh,  could  I  but  weep  —  but  no,  I  don't  want  to.  I 
want  to  claim  him  from  those  who  send  him  to  his  death!  (Weeps.} 

Sasha. —  Sister,  sister! 

Marianushka. —  To-morrow  —  to-morrow,  Sasha.  To-morrow!  (Falls 
in  a  faint.} 

Sasha  (wildly). —  What  is  it  ?  Anushka!  I  swear  to  you,  I  shall  not 
present  myself  to-morrow.  They  may  come,  they  may  get  me  by  force! 

Kekulin  (heavily  intoxicated}. —  How  many  fell,  Jaschka  ?  A  whole 
company  ? 

Sipjagin. —  Three  thousand  five  hundred  and  fifty-eight  men.  (Still 
holds  the  paper  before  him.} 

Kekulin  (while  the  others  are  silent  with  awe). —  Well,  that's  the  way. 
(Staggers  to  the  front  and  sings.} 

'Tis  good  before  the  guns  to  stand, 

For  ere  you  are  aware, 
In  a  wink  of  eye,  with  a  move  of  hand  — 

You  are  dead  and  rid  of  care! 

(During    the    singing  —  Curtain} 

ACT  II 

(The  afternoon  of  the  following  day.  Bright  sunshine  upon  the  street. 
A  sultry,  expectant  atmosphere  in  the  basement.} 

SCENE  I 
GRISHA,  MATRENA,  SASHA 

Sasha  (in  a  corner  of  the  bench  at  the  stove,  his  head  in  his  hands}. 
Matrena  (standing  wearily  at  the  table;  trembles  as  she  listens  to  sounds 


146  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

•without). —  Do  you  hear?  Grisha,  don't  you  hear  it?  The  steps  of 
soldiers.  They  are  coming,  Sasha. 

Grisha  (frightened;  goes  to  the  stairs). —  Do  you  hear  them,  mother 
Matrena  ?  You  must  be  mistaken. 

Matrena. —  No,  no  —  listen.     They  come  to  get  Sasha. 

Grisha. —  No,  mother,  you  are  mistaken.  It  is  workingmen  that  are 
passing  on  the  sidewalk.  These  are  no  soldiers. 

Matrena  (staring  like  one  paralyzed  with  despair). —  Yes,  and  even  if  I 
were  mistaken  this  time,  still  they  will  come.  Surely  they  will  come.  I 
wonder  what  they  said  at  the  barracks  to-day  when  his  name  was  called  and 
Ivan  had  to  tell  them:  "  My  brother  did  not  come.  He  refuses  to  go  to 
war."  How  they  must  have  treated  Ivan.  "  So  that's  the  kind  you  are, 
you  and  your  nice  brother  ?  "  (Helplessly  going  toward  SASHA.)  Child  — 
don't  —  don't  sit  at  that  stove  so  silently.  Speak.  Perhaps  it  is  still  time 
to  go.  Yes,  go.  They  will  forgive  you  for  not  having  been  prompt.  You 
don't  want  to  bring  misfortune  to  your  mother  and  your  brother  and  sister! 

Grisha  (trembling). —  Mother  Matrena,  let  him  alone.  Respect  his 
feelings.  Can't  you  feel  that  he  cannot  act  otherwise!  He  —  and  he  shan't, 
either!  (Tenderly.)  Sasha,  my  good  boy!  (Embraces  MATRENA.)  Don't  you 
love  him  ?  If  you  do,  mother  Matrena,  don't  torture  him  with  your  talk. 

Matrena. —  Grisha,  I  love  him  more  dearly  than  my  other  children. 
He  always  was  so  good  and  quiet,  that  boy,  far  better  a  child  than  Ivan  or 
Anushka.  I  often  wished  he  could  get  an  education.  For  him  I  could  have 
drudged,  given  my  very  blood.  And  now  he  is  to  be  the  cause  of  the  mis- 
fortune of  us  all.  (Caresses  his  hair.)  Sasha  —  child 

Sasha  (puts  his  arms  about  her  and  throws  back  his  head). —  Mother! 
—  I  know  that  you  have  slaved  your  life  long,  that  you  have  known  nothing 
but  cares  and  sorrows.  You  have  had  everything  to  bear.  I  want  to  work 
for  you,  want  to  drudge  and  starve,  I  wrant  to  ease  your  life.  But  to  become 
a  soldier  and  go  to  the  war  —  never.  And  now,  say  nothing  more  about  it. 
(Sits  down.)  Come  what  may,  I  alone  shall  bear  the  guilt. 

Grisha. —  Sasha,  those  who  want  to  get  you,  theirs  is  the  guilt.  Let 
them  come. 

Matrena  (helpless,  tired). —  Oh,  God!     Child  —  don't  encourage  him 

Grisha. —  Do  I,  mother  Matrena  ? 

Matrena. —  Your  brother,  too,  has  gone. 

Grisha. —  Yes,  Andrew  went  —  and  that  is  bad  enough.  Shall  I  give 
up  Sasha,  too  ? 

Matrena. —  Kekulin  stays  away  so  long.  He  wanted  to  return  promptly 
after  having  taken  Ivan  to  the  barracks.  If  Ivan  had  not  gone  either! 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  147 

(Trembling.}  Sasha,  hide,  escape,  until  to-morrow.  I  know  where  they  will 
not  find  you  —  hide,  Sasha. 

Sasha  (quietly). —  Don't  expect  me  to  do  that,  mother. 

Matrena. —  Oh,  my  child,  my  child. 

Grisha. —  Mother  Matrena,  perhaps  father  Dmitri  is  in  the  tavern  ? 

Matrena. —  What  do  you  mean  —  in  the  tavern?  Over  at  Possilo- 
witsch  ?  Spending  his  last  money  in  drink  ?  Ruining  himself  by  drink 
because  he  is  out  of  work!  I  shall  get  him.  I  want  to  know  whether  Ivan 
did  present  himself  and  what  the  soldiers  said.  (Staggering  out  wearily.} 

Grisha. —  Mother  Matrena,  shall  I  go  too  ? 

Matrena. —  No,  no.     Thank  you.     He  will  not  listen  to  you. 

SCENE  II 
SASHA,  GRISHA 

Grisha  (stands  still;  fearfully). —  Sasha?  (After  a  pause,  tenderly.} 
Sasha,  see  how  brightly  the  sun  shines.  It  sheds  a  glow  even  into  this  base- 
ment, Sasha,  don't  you  see  it?  It  is  spring  outside  (timidly).  Spring! 
spring!  You  feel  it  in  the  air.  It  is  so  strangely  soft. 

Sasha. —  Spring! 

Grisha. —  Spring  is  so  beautiful.  The  buds  open,  the  trees  get  green. 
Everybody  feels  cheered,  Sasha,  it  is  almost  as  beautiful  as  loving  somebody. 
(Comes  up  to  him}  Sasha,  I  love  you  —  Oh,  how  I  love  you 

Sasha. —  Poor  Grisha. 

Grisha  (on  her  knees,  opening  her  arms  to  him}. —  Rich,  happy  Grisha! 

Sasha  (deeply  moved}. —  Grisha,  could  I  do  otherwise  —  but  I  can't! 

Grisha. —  You  —  neither  shall  you.  Just  as  you  are,  I  love  you  —  love 
you  so  dearly,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  dearly.  Can  it  be  told  at  all,  Sasha  ? 
One  would  like  to  do  something  to  show  it  and  yet  one  can't. 

Sasha  (very  quietly}. —  You  need  not.  I  know  it.  I  have  known  it  as 
long  as  I  can  think.  Grisha,  do  you  remember  when  you  gave  me  the 
first  kiss  ? 

Grisha. —  I  know,  yes.  Bad  boys  on  the  street  had  been  abusing  you. 
You  had  done  nothing  to  them.  And  you  allowed  them  to  beat  you  and 
only  looked  at  them  so  sadly.  Then  they  went  away  using  bad  language. 
And  then  I  kissed  you.  You  were  much  stronger  than  they. 

Sasha. —  You  are  so  young,  you  are  so  beautiful.  You  have  such  large, 
deep  brown  eyes.  (Tortured.}  Could  I  do  otherwise  for  you,  Grisha,  I 
might  do  it. 

Grisha. —  But  you  shall  not  —  you  shall  defy  them.  I  want  it.  Let 
them  say  whatever  they  want. 


148                                THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 
Sasha. —  Dear  Grisha 


Grisha. —  Darling  —  darling 

Sasha  (quietly). —  Grisha,  once  I  read  a  story  that  I  was  setting  up  in  the 
printing  shop.  I  could  not  get  the  types  quickly  enough,  so  beautiful  and 
so  sad  was  that  story.  Think  of  it;  a  man  and  a  woman  are  in  prison. 
They  are  to  be  executed.  They  love  each  other  and  they  are  to  die. 

Grisha  (overwhelmed}. —  Like  us,  like  us,  Sasha.  I  want  to  die  with 
you.  Oh,  what  is  death,  as  long  as  you  love  each  other. 

Sasha. —  Do  you  know  what  crime  those  two  had  committed  ?  They 
had  only  said  we  believe  in  God  and  Jesus  Christ.  That  they  were  not 
allowed  to  say. 

Grisha. —  But  to-day  all  say  it. 

Sasha. —  To-day  they  torture  him  who  no  longer  can  believe  it,  because 
he  doubts  divine  justice.  (Trembling.}  Do  you  know  how  those  two  died  ? 
They  clasped  hands.  Their  arms  about  each  other  they  stood  at  the  stake 
and  smiled,  when  the  flames  reached  up  to  them.  "  Do  you  love  me,"  he 
asked,  "  do  I  cause  you  pain  ?  "  "  No,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  I  know  that  you 
are  right." 

Grisha  (exultingly). —  And  you  are  right.  You  are  right.  So  we  want 
to  die!  (She  involuntarily  takes  hold  of  his  hand.} 

Sasha  (with  a  sad  smile}.  —  Do  you  love  me,  do  I  cause  you  pain  ? 

Grisha. —  My  beloved!     I  laugh.     I  laugh,  for  you  are  right. 

Sasha. —  Grisha,  dear  Grisha!  Believe  me;  the  time  will  come  when 
they  will  all  say:  "  We  shall  kill  no  more.  We  want  peace,  we  want  to  work. 
And  we  want  to  be  good  to  all  people.  We  won't  have  any  one  live  like  a 
dog.  We  won't  have  people  wail  with  hunger  because  they  have  not  even  as 
much  to  eat  as  a  beast."  (With  visionary  ardor.}  It  will  come,  Grisha,  that 
beautiful  time.  But  one  must  make  the  beginning.  Then  the  others 
follow,  all,  all. 

Grisha  (enthusiastic}.  —  We — we  shall  make  the  beginning.  We, 
Sasha.  Hand  in  hand.  And  we  shall  smile  —  like  —  spring  and  like  the 
sun  here  in  the  basement  when  we  go  to  our  death. 

Sasha. —  Dearest  ? 

Grisha. —  My  beloved! 

SCENE  III 
The  preceding.     MARIANUSHKA. 

Marianushka  (coming  down  the  stairs  with  a  bitter  laugh}. —  Oh,  you 
turtle  doves!  You  butterflies!  You  do  not  seem  to  realize  that  you  are 
caressing  each  other  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss. 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN         149 

Grisha. —  Marianushka,  you  can  only  be  bitter.  What  do  you  know 
of  love  now !  (Throws  back  her  head.)  What  —  what  can  be  sweeter  than  to 
love  each  other  and  to  know  —  that  you  will  have  to  die  together. 

Marianushka. —  You  won't  die,  little  girl.  You  will  live.  They  take 
only  our  men. 

Sasha. —  You  have  returned  from  the  news  office,  dear  Marianushka. 
What  did  you  hear  ?  How  did  Petrushka  die  ?  Where  ? 

Marianushka  (sits  down  on  the  bench;  with  hollow  voice). —  How  do  I 
know  ?  I  came  there.  The  large  place  was  crowded  with  women.  None 
of  them  said  a  word.  They  were  all  cowards.  They  feared  the  officials 
and  they  dreaded  the  terrible  truth.  But  if  you  had  seen  their  eyes !  Hatred 
and  horror  shrieked  forth  from  them.  Those  eyes  I  shall  not  forget  in  all 
my  life.  "  I  have  lost  my  support,"  cried  their  looks,  "  and  I  have  children. 
How  can  I  bring  them  up  to  an  honest  life  ?  "  And  when  they  did  ask  the 
officials  a  question,  they  knew  nothing  —  "We  don't  know.  We  don't 
know.  We  only  know  that  they  fell,"  was  their  answer.  They  too  dreaded 
to  give  it.  I  pitied  them.  The  sweat  stood  on  their  brows  as  though  they 
were  all  thinking  how  terrible,  how  terrible  is  all  this  —  And  do  you  believe 
that  one  of  those  women  went  home  ?  No,  they  all  stayed  there,  standing 
and  sitting  around.  And  more  and  more  came,  more  and  more.  They  stood 
at  the  entrance  and  in  a  long  file  down  the  street,  far,  far  down.  And  all 
these  women  had  those  terrible  eyes.  Then  one  uttered  a  shriek.  Only 
one,  but  they  all  followed  her.  To  heaven  went  forth  this  cry, —  "  Give  us 
back  our  men.  Our  children  call  their  fathers.  They  starve.  What 
will  you  give  our  children  in  place  of  their  fathers  ?  "  I  rushed  away. 
(Stifling  her  sobs.)  Father  in  heaven,  the  child  that  I  am  to  give  birth  to  — 
Sasha,  Grisha,  what  is  to  become  of  that  child  ? 

Sasha  (mastering  his  feeling). —  Give  me  strength.  Grisha,  Anushka, 
give  me  strength  to  be  quiet. 

Grisha. —  Anushka,  I  shall  love  your  child  as  if  it  were  my  own. 

Marianushka  (again  in  a  hollow,  monotonous  voice). —  When  I  went 
home  I  met  a  troop  of  soldiers.  They  came  from  the  railway  depot.  A 
troop  of  wounded.  They  were  dreadfully  mangled;  some  faces  ridden  with 
bullets;  some  without  feet,  others  without  fingers.  They  still  bore  their 
uniforms.  Dirty,  torn  uniforms  of  the  sharpshooters.  I  recognized  those 
at  once.  Petrushka  had  the  same.  I  spoke  to  them,  spoke  to  all,  begged 
for  news.  "  Did  you  know  Petrushka  ?  Petrushka  ?  He  served  with 
you.  He  had  a  little  scar  on  his  cheek.  A  big,  handsome,  good  man." — 
"  What,  he  served  with  us  ?  Petrushka  ?  "  Nobody,  nobody  knew  any- 
thing about  him,  nobody  had  known  him.  O  God!  they  live  and  they  die 


i5o  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

beside  each  other  and  never  know  each  other.  And  they  call  one  another 
brothers  and  the  others  enemies! 

Sasha. —  Stop,  Anushka,  stop! 

Grisha. —  Anushka,  have  you  seen  my  brother,  have  you  seen  Andrew 
among  them  ?  He,  too,  served  in  the  same  regiment  as  your  husband.  If 
he,  too,  were  wounded. 

Marianushka  (gloomily). —  I  did  not  see  him.  I  did  not  look  for  him. 
I  wanted  to  know  how  Petrushka  had  died. 

Sasha  (moved}. —  Sister,  how  hard  you  have  beer  me. 

Grisha. —  Anushka,  don't  I  love  Petrushka,  too  ?  Oh,  if  Andrew  had 
come  back  crippled! 

Marianushka. —  Yes,  I  have  become  hard  and  embittered.  Beside 
husband  and  child  I  care  for  nothing.  Oh,  but  I  can  laugh  too.  I  even 
laughed  aloud.  On  my  way  back  I  met  Natasha.  She  has  her  new  hat 
already.  She  takes  it  easy.  "  Do  you  know,"  said  she,  laughing,  "  that  I 
won't  go  home  any  more  ?  Do  you  believe  I  want  to  support  the  old  man, 
that  —  old  sot  ?  I  am  going  to  war.  You  know  with  whom  ?  That  little 
Colonel  Tschertkoff.  A  good-natured  stupid  baldpate.  Say,  there  are 
many  going  along.  Look  out,  it's  going  to  be  lots  of  fun."  I  spat  into  her 
face.  I  only  said:  "  Go  along,  here  or  there,  it  is  all  the  same  for  the  like 
of  you." 

SCENE  IV 
The  preceding.     KEKULIN.     MATRENA  (enter  from  street} 

Matrena. —  Now  speak  like  a  sensible  man,  Dmitri.  Did  you  take 
Ivan  to  the  barracks  ?  What  did  they  say  ? 

Kekulin  (drunk). —  What  they  said?  Matrena,  you  know  the  clerk 
at  the  army  store,  they  all  respect  him.  Such  a  clerk  is  a  person  of  im- 
portance, I  tell  you.  When  they  come  up  to  his  desk  they  all  take  off  their 
caps.  Such  a  clerk,  Matrena,  you  don't  know  what  he  is.  Such  a  clerk 
rules  more  than  the  emperor. 

Matrena  (touchingly). —  Dmitri  —  I  am  his  mother.  Did  you  take 
Ivan  to  the  barracks  this  morning  ? 

Kekulin. —  Oh,  ha,  ha.  Of  course  I  did.  "  Ivan,"  said  I,  "  I  shall 
take  you  there.  Don't  you  know  that  they  all  know  me,  Dmitri  Kekulin  ? 
Don't  you  know  that  they  all  know  how  I  fixed  Pan  Director  Polyakin, 
all  the  subalterns  ?  "  "  Dmitri,"  they  will  say  —  "  hats  off  to  you.  You  are 
a  man.  A  capital  fellow!  "  "  No,"  I  said,  "  I  am  your  brother,  I  am 
brother  Kekulin." 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  151 

Marianushka. —  Mother,  he  is  lying.     He  is  drunk. 

Kekulin  (indignantly}. —  So,  so,  I  am  lying  ?  Well,  then  I  need  not  say 
anything  more. 

Marianushka. —  And  now  he  is  going  to  be  stubborn. 

Matrena. —  Father  Dmitri,  don't  torture  me  so.  What  has  become 
of  Ivan  ? 

Kekulin  (kindly). —  Torture  you,  mother  Matrena  ?  No,  such  a  good- 
hearted  woman  ?  No,  mother,  you  need  not  worry.  Your  Ivan  is  in  good 
hands. 

Marianushka. —  Indeed,  in  good  hands. 

Grisha. —  Had  many  been  drafted,  father  Dmitri  ?  What  did  they 
have  to  say  when  Sasha  failed  to  appear. 

Kekulin. —  Why  surely.  What  do  you  think,  you  little  grasshopper, 
do  you  think  they  will  send  Ivan  out  alone  ? 

Matrena. —  Well,  tell  us,  what  they  had  to  do  at  the  barracks.     Tell  us 
everything. 

Kekulin. —  Well,  yes.  You  know  how  it  is.  How  can  you  know 
everything  ?  (Grinning.}  Of  course  they  —  growl  at  them.  Surely,  mother, 
they  did  growl  most  fiercely. 

Matrena.  —  Were  others  missing  beside  Sasha  ? 

Kekulin. —  Well,  yes.     Why  should  they  not  ? 

Marianushka. —  Shall  I  tell  you  something,  father  Dmitri  ?  You  have 
not  been  there  at  all.  You  did  not  take  Ivan  to  the  barracks. 

Kekulin. —  Ha,  ha.  How  smart  you  are,  my  dove.  Do  you  believe 
that  I  would  turn  back  halfway  ?  No,  no,  "  Ivan,"  said  I,  "  Ivan,  now  you 
go  along.  You  will  find  your  way.  It  is  real  nice  in  the  barracks,  go  along. 
And  come  back  hale  and  hearty."  (Sentimentally.}  Hale  and  hearty,  yes, 
my  dear  heart,  that's  what  I  told  him  to  console  him. 

Marianushka. —  You  were  the  right  one  to  send  along.  Go  on  and 
sleep,  and  get  rid  of  your  jag,  old  sot. 

Matrena. —  Oh,  Father  in  heaven,  if  Ivan,  too,  had  not  presented 
himself,  I  would  not  survive  it.  Sasha,  Anushka,  I  can't  bear  this  misery 
any  longer. 

Kekulin. —  Mother  Matrena,  poor  heart;  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that.  He 
surely  has  gone.  Have  you  something  to  eat  for  me,  Matrena  ? 

Matrena  (absent,  helpless}. —  Come.  Come  along.  You'll  get  some- 
thing. Whether  we'll  have  something  to-morrow,  that  I  -  -  (sits  down 
in  the  corner  and  weeps.}  Oh,  my  Savior,  my  dear  Lord  -  (The 

dusk  is  rapidly  setting  in.} 


1 52  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

^  SCENE  V 

The  preceding.     ANDREW 

Grisha. —  Who  comes  there  ? 

Sasha. —  A  soldier  ? 

Marianushka  (spellbound). —  Petrushka  ?  —  impossible 

Kekuhn  (staggers  towards  the  newcomer). —  Good  day,  my  dear. 

Andrew  (quietly  comes  down  the  stairs.  Walks  with  a  cane.  His  head 
is  bandaged.  Not  recognizable). 

Marianushka  (stares  at  him;  hollow  voice). —  What  do  you  wish  ? 

Grisha  (anxiously). —  If  it  were  —  Andrew! 

Andrew  (gloomily,  embittered ',  very  solemn,  as  if  brooding  about  some  one 
problem). —  You  do  not  know  your  brother,  Grisha  ?  None  of  you  recognize 
me  ? 

Grisha  (rushes  up  to  him}. —  Andrew,  my  brother,  you  are  back  ?  O 
God,  O  God  —  No,  thank  God. 

Andrew  (slowly  nodding}. —  Yes,  yes 

Matrena. —  Take  a  seat,  dear  boy  (touchingly).  Are  you  too,  hungry  ? 
Will  you  have  something  to  eat  ? 

Andrew  (absently  nodding  his  assent). —  Yes,  yes  —  This  is  the  way  we 
return,  Sasha. 

Grisha. —  Dear  brother,  how  glad  I  am!  Oh,  how  glad  that  you  are 
here,  that  I  have  you!  Oh,  you  will  see,  I  shall  set  you  up  again.  You 
will  be  yourself  again,  Andrew,  when  I  have  you  under  my  care. 

Sasha. —  Sit  down,  Andrew.     Come  here  to  the  table.     You  are  tired  ? 

Andrew  (still  absently). —  Yes,  yes  - 

Marianushka  (almost  hatefully). —  Be  glad  that  you  have  done  with  it. 
Rejoice  that  you  are  back.  Others  fare  worse.  Where  did  you  leave 
Petrushka,  Andrew  ?  Did  you  see  him  die  ?  Where  did  he  die  ?  I  beg 
you  tell  me,  I  have  no  peace  until  I  have  heard  it  all. 

Andrew. —  Yes,  yes  - 

Grisha. —  Dear  Andrew,  are  you  so  worn  out  ?  You  have  not  slept 
for  a  long  while  ?  Your  bed  is  still  in  order.  I  have  made  it  again  and 
again ;  made  it  for  you  so  you  will  rest  well  on  your  return. 

Kekulin. —  You  know  your  old  friend  no  more,  Andrew  ?  Dmitri 
Kekulin  ?  If  you  only  knew  how  I  fixed  Pan  Director  Polyakin,  told  him 
the  truth  - 

Andrew  (with  an  uncanny  laugh). —  The  truth  —  ha,  ha 

Sasha  (puts  his  arms  about  his  shoulders). —  Dear  Andrew,  cannot  we 
do  something  to  you  ?  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  It  pains  me  to  see  you  so 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  153 

quiet.  What  is  it?  What  is  torturing  you?  Tell  us.  Our  hearts  feel 
with  you 

Andrew  (still  silent;  then  rises  suddenly). —  Oh,  oh  —  (strikes  the  table 
with  his  fist.  Then  groans  deeply).  Oh  —  damn  —  damn  —  damn  it! 

Marianushka. —  War! 

Sasha  (overpowered). —  Andrew! 

Grisha. —  Andrew! 

Matrena  (staggers  towards  him;  with  a  hollow  voice). —  This  is  the  way 
you  return  ?  This  is  the  way  ?  Oh,  my  children.  Oh,  Sasha,  Ivan, 
Petrushka 

Marianushka. —  Did  you  see  my  husband  die  ?     Andrew,  answer. 

Andrew. —  We  were  in  the  same  line. 

Marianushka  (triumphantly). —  You  saw  him  —  saw  him  die  ?  Thanks 
Andrew,  thanks. 

Andrew. —  I  shall  never  forget  that  day.  None  of  the  days  out  there. 
When  I  think  of  them  I  feel  —  as  if  I  were  losing  my  reason  —  I  must  not 
think  of  them  (his  head  bowed,  pressing  his  hands  to  his  eyes).  It  will  make 
me  insane  (suddenly  bending  over  the  table  and  stretching  out  his  right  hand 
in  a  visionary  attitude).  But  the  most  horrible  thing  —  if  you  want  to  know 
the  worst  evil  of  such  a  battlefield  —  yes,  storm  on,  rush  ahead,  rush  like 
madmen  —  throw  back  the  infantry  of  the  enemy  —  but  take  heed  of  the 
barbed  wires!  They  are  stretched  out  crisscross.  Try  to  cut  them,  they 
recoil  like  beasts  and  wind  around  the  men  who  have  stumbled  through 
them !  And  then  come  the  bullets  and  the  shells,  a  shower  of  them,  whizzing 
and  howling  as  if  hell  were  let  loose  —  you  want  to  flee  —  all  want  to  flee! 
Whither  ?  They  run  into  the  wires  and  the  pits.  Flight  is  impossible. 
Everything  is  shot  down,  and  the  pits  are  soon  filled  with  bleeding,  crying 
human  beings 

Marianushka. —  And  Petrushka.     Tell  me,  Andrew,  and  Petrushka  ? 

Andrew. —  I  saw  him  hanging  on  such  a  wire.  He  shrieked.  Hewas 
writhing  to  free  himself.  He  could  not.  The  barbs  held  him  — And 
then  a  bullet  pierced  his  abdomen. 

Marianushka. —  What  are  you  saying?  What  is  that  —  you  lie!" 
You  lie!  People  cannot  be  so  fiendish  to  one  another.  They  are  beasts. 
No,  not  even  beasts  are  like  that.  Oh  —  and  why  did  you  not  help  him  ? 
Why  did  you  not  tear  loose  from  the  wire  ? 

Andrew. —  Yes,  why  —  why  —  Oh,  yes,  yes  - 

Marianushka. —  You  have  not  been  fair  with  him.  Do  you  know 
what  I  ought  to  do  now  ?  (She  sobs  convulsively.) 

Andrew. —  Oh,  yes,  yes.    What  you  ought  to  do !     Hold  still.     Be  quiet. 


i54  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

That  is  what  we  all  have  to  do.  When  you  have  that  red  glare  in  your  head, 
on  the  battlefield,  do  you  believe  you  feel  anything,  you  see  anything  ?  You 
are  deaf.  You  are  insensible.  You  hear  and  see  nothing.  You  run  and 
strike  and  shoot  and  think  nothing  of  it.  From  sheer  terror,  from  a  frightful 
despair  you  become  brave,  you  storm  on  and  think  only  it  must  have  an  end : 
An  end.  An  end  either  way,  Anushka,  I  closed  my  eyes.  It  was  the  following 
night.  I  myself  was  torn  up  with  wounds.  If  you  knew  how  such  a  battle- 
field looks  at  night  —  heard  those  horrible  groans  far,  far  off.  If  you  saw 
those  mouths  shrieking  their  agony  towards  heaven,  and  those  faces,  those 
eyes.  Oh,  the  joy  when  a  lantern  approaches.  It  means  help,  succor. 
They  search  the  battlefield  —  a  few  nurses.  Oh,  the  misery  of  it  when  the 
lanterns  stray  off,  further  and  further,  and  you  remain  lying  in  the  dark. 

Marianushka. —  Did  he  say  nothing  ?     Did  he  send  no  message  ? 

Andrew  (stands  beside  her}. —  "  Give  my  greetings  to  Marianushka. 

Tell  her  I  loved  her.  And  tell  her;  the  child  —  the  child "  He  could 

not  say  another  word. 

Marianushka. —  Oh,  Petrushka  —  my  good  husband  —  the  child  — 
the  child  —  (faints  away). 

Grisha. —  What  ails  her  ?     Oh,  mercy 

Matrena  (sobbing  aloud}. —  Marianushka! 

Sasha  (trembling). —  No,  no.     They  may  kill  me,  I  shall  not  go. 

Kekulin. —  Andrew,  did  they  send  you  boots  soled  with  pasteboard  ? 

(MARIANUSHKA  is  led  by  MATRENA  and  GRISHA  to  the  alcove,  right. 
They  lay  her  down  on  a  bed.} 

Sasha. —  Be  quiet,  father  Dmitri.     Do  you  keep  quiet  now. 

Kekulin. —  Well,  yes.  Yet  Andrew,  if  you  knew.  "  Pan  Director," 
said  I,  "  Pan  Director  Polyakin,  you  must  not  send  boots  soled  with  paste- 
board to  our  soldiers  at  the  front.  They  are  our  brothers." 

SCENE    VI 
The  preceding.     Sergeant.     Three  soldiers 

Sergeant  (middle  aged,  hardened,  rough;  enters  with  three  armed  sol- 
diers}.—  Does  widow  Grishewska  live  here  ? 

Matrena  (trembling}. —  Oh,  God.  Dear  Father  in  heaven  —  (clinging 
to  GRISHA).  I  knew  they  would  come,  Grisha!  (Appealing  to  ANDREW.) 
Oh,  my  Father  in  heaven  —  Andrew  - 

Andrew  (nodding}. —  Yes,  she  lives  here.     What  is  it,  Comrade? 

Sergeant  (saluting}. —  Comrade  —  (turns  to  MATRENA).  Are  you  the 
widow  Grishewska  ?  Where  is  your  son,  Alexander  ? 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  155 

Matrena. —  He  —  He  —  He  is  not  here  —  he  is  gone.  He  is  on  the 
way  to  barracks. 

Sergeant. —  Don't  lie.  I  know  that  trick.  Where  have  you  hid  him  ? 
Well?  Speak!  Hurry  up. 

Matrena. —  I  --  I  —  did  not  hide  him. 

Sasha  (quietly). —  Here  I  am,  I  need  not  hide. 

Sergeant. —  So,  it  is  you  ?  Very  well.  You  had  orders  to  present 
yourself  at  ten  o'clock  at  the  Kasan  barracks. 

Sasha  (quietly). —  Yes. 

Sergeant. —  You  knew  it  and  you  did  not  come  ?  You  should  have 
obeyed.  It  would  have  been  better. 

Sasha. —  I  —  I  —  cannot  obey. 

Gnsha  (clinging  to  him). —  He  cannot  obey  that  order.     He  can't. 

Sergeant  (grinning  uncannily). —  Little  brother,  do  you  know  what  the 
paragraph  referring  to  refusal  reads  like  ? 

Sasha. —  Yes  —  I  know  it,  yes. 

Marianushka  (regaining  consciousness). —  What  is  the  matter  ?  What 
has  happened  to  me  ?  Oh,  the  pain  —  the  pain  —  Oh  —  (falls  back). 

Sergeant. —  Well,  if  you  knew  it  you  are  a  fool  not  to  have  come. 

Sasha  (with  deep  emotion). —  Must  I  be  a  fool  ?  (Violently.)  I  will  not 
kill,  it  is  sin.  A  sin  against  God  and  man. 

Sergeant. —  Nobody  cares  for  that. 

Marianushka. —  Mother,  what  voices  are  these  ?     I  cannot  rise 

Sasha. —  But  I  care.  Am  I  a  human  being  only  as  long  as  you  will 
let  me  be  one  ?  Whom  do  I  benefit  if  I  kill  ?  It  only  means  sowing  wrath 
and  hatred  among  people.  Why  should  I  do  that  ?  Of  what  use  is  it  ? 
It  does  no  one  good. 

Sergeant  (dryly). —  So  you  are  afraid,  little  brother  ?  We  have  a  cure 
for  that.  Stepan,  take  him  between  you. 

Grisha. —  This  you  won't  do.     Unless  you  walk  over  my  body. 

Sasha. —  Don't,  Grisha.     Don't  resist. 

Matrena  (weeping). —  Have  pity,  have  pity.  I  gave  you  Ivan,  my  other 
son. 

Sergeant. —  I  am  doing  my  duty.     Seize  him. 

Matrena  (breaking  down). —  Mercy  upon  us.  Look,  there  lies  my 
daughter.  They  shot  her  husband  in  war.  She  has  just  learned  how  he 
died.  Have  pity.  In  the  name  of  our  Savior  don't  take  from  me  that 
boy.  Who  shall  support  us  ? 

Sergeant. —  That  does  not  concern  me.  (To  SASHA.)  You  know  if 
you  refuse  we  won't  stand  on  any  ceremony. 


156  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Sasha. —  I  won't  resist  —  I  —  I  shall  go  with  you.  I  want  to  help 
those  who  lie  around  the  battlefield  bleeding  and  mained.  I  will  nurse  them. 
I  won't  sleep  or  eat.  I  shall  care  for  them  day  and  night.  But  I  won't 
kill.  Rather  shall  you  kill  me. 

Grisha. —  And  me.     Take  me  with  him.     We  want  to  die  together. 

Sergeant. — Talk!  Nursing!  Nonsense.  You  have  been  drafted  for 
the  army.  That's  all.  And  now  go  ahead. 

Marianushka. —  Mother,  is  it  the  soldiers  ?     They  want  to  get  Sasha  ? 
(With  a  wild  outcry.}    You  dare  not.     You  cannot  drag  them  all  to  be  slaugh- 
tered out  there.     (Writhing  on  the  bed.}     Give  me   back  my  husband.     I 
claim  him  from  you  (breaks  out  into  long  sobs).     Lord  in  heaven,  is  there  no 
more  justice  on  earth  ? 

Kekulin  (gently,  touchingly). —  Oh,  my  dear,  be  quiet.  Think  of  the 
child  —  the  child 

Marianushka. —  The  child  —  the  poor  child 

Andrew  (solemnly,  strangely). —  Comrade,  have  you  been  at  the  front  ? 
They  are  not  fair  with  us,  who  sent  us  out  there.  It  will  do  no  longer.  It 
is  against  all  reason.  It  is  a  crime.  Those  horrors  are  inhuman. 

Sergeant. —  Don't  talk  drivel.  You  know  that  I  must  obey.  Can't 
you  believe  that  it  is  hard  enough  for  me  ?  I,  too,  wish  I  were  doing  some- 
thing else.  But  what's  the  use  ?  Come,  don't  tarry  any  longer.  It  is 
nonsense. 

Sasha  (quietly,  with  bowed  head). —  Mother  —  Andrew  —  Anushka  — 
farewell.  Oh,  mother.  Oh,  Grisha.  Do  I  cause  you  grief? 

Matrena. —  Sasha,  my  child  —  I  shall  not  survive  this. 

Grisha  (wildly). —  Sasha,  I  am  laughing.  They  shall  take  me  along 
with  you. 

Marianushka  (drags  herself  across  the  -floor  on  her  knees}. —  Oh,  Mother 
in  heaven  —  that  pain  —  let  me  have  the  strength.  Let  me  only  rise.  I 
will  get  him  out  of  their  hands.  I  shall  strangle  them.  Oh,  that  pain  — 
(the  soldiers  have  reached  the  stairs  with  SASHA). 

Sergeant  (pushing  GRISHA  back  ). —  Back,  I  say.  What  do  you  want  ? 
Back! 

Grisha. —  Oh,  let  me  go  along.     I  must  be  with  him. 

Sergeant. —  Go  away.     You  won't  come  along. 

Grisha  (staggering  back). —  But  you  shall  take  me.  We  want  to  die 
together.  You  heartless — you  cruel  brutes!  (Crying  out  to  the  others.) 
They  have  taken  him  from  me!  They  have  torn  me  away  from  him! 

Matrena  (wailing). —  My  children,  my  children! 

Grisha. —  Andrew!     Father  Dmitri!     Anushka!     Help!       Free  him! 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN         157 

I 

They  take  him  away  and  I  cannot  go  with  him.  Oh,  is  there  no  one  to  help 
me?  Oh,  Sasha,  Sasha! 

Marianushka  (prostrate). —  Now  live!  Now  laugh!  Now  you  know 
what  love  is,  you  unhappy  girl! 

Gnsha  (falling  down  beside  her}. —  They  have  taken  him  from  me  — 
Marianushka  —  Marianushka. 

ACT  III 

SCENE:  as  before.     Evening 
SCENE  I 

MARIANUSHKA  lies  asleep  in  alcove,  right;  the  curtains  are  thrown  back. 
MATRENA  is  busy  with  the  child  of  MARIANUSHKA,  that  has  just  died.  The 
body  is  in  a  covered  basket  on  a  chair  in  background.  KEKULIN  is  standing 
beside  her,  evidently  perturbed.  ANDREW  on  bench  by  the  table  wearily  sup- 
porting his  head.  GRISHA  in  corner  by  the  stove  absently  staring  before  her. 

Matrena  (helpless,  bowed  with  grief,  sobbing}. —  Oh,  oh,  there  it  lies, 
the  baby.  Only  two  days  old  and  dead  already.  I  knew  it.  How  could 
it  have  lived  ?  Oh,  father  Dmitri,  I  could  weep  —  weep  all  the  time. 

Kekulin  (gently}. —  Poor  heart!  Don't  weep.  It  is  better,  after  all. 
What  was  to  become  of  such  a  child  in  the  world  ? 

Andrew  (slowly  nodding}. —  Yes  —  such  a  child  has  more  sense  than 
a  grown-up  —  gets  out  of  it  right  away. 

Matrena. —  Oh,  I  also  wish  that  I  had  died  long  ago.  What  is  a 
mother's  life  ?  It  brought  nothing  to  me  but  sorrow  —  and  misery. 

Gnsha  (weeping;  quietly  goes  to  her}. —  Yes,  mother,  you  always  had  to 
suffer.  You  only  lived  for  the  others.  Poor,  good,  dear  mother. 

Matrena. —  I  am  so  tired  —  so  tired. 

Grisha. —  You  ought  to  get  some  sleep,  mother  dear.  I  shall  stay 
awake. 

Matrena  (with  a  painful  smile}. —  Sleep?  Sleep?  Do  you  believe 
that  I  have  closed  my  eyes  during  all  these  nights  ?  I  have  been  sitting  in  the 
chair  and  thinking:  what  did  I  do  that  trouble  should  never  leave  this 
house  ? 

Andrew  (rising;  gently  but  earnestly}. —  Mother  Matrena,  you  must  not 
give  up  to  those  thoughts.  It  is  of  no  use.  You  were  always  a  good  mother. 
Don't  worry  about  that. 

Matrena  (overpowered  by  her  great  sorrow}. —  But  I  can  bear  this  no 
longer.  I  —  I  —  can't.  I  am  breaking  down.  Ivan  at  the  front,  Marian- 
ushka between  life  and  death.  The  baby  dead  —  and  Sasha 


158  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Grisha  (sobbing  aloud}. —  Sasha  in  prison.  Oh,  mother,  mother,  I 
cannot  stand  this  suspense,  either.  I  am  breaking  down  under  this  strain. 
Why  did  they  not  take  me  with  him  ?  I  think  just  as  he  does,  I  am  as  much 
to  blame. 

Matrena. —  I  --  I  have  such  a  strange  feeling  to-day  —  all  day.  Sup- 
posing this  were  his  last  night! 

Grisha. —  His  last  night  ? 

Kekulin. —  Dear  child,  I  don't  believe  it. 

Andrew  (quietly,  earnestly}. —  Yes.  If  at  the  last  moment  he  would 
say:  All  right,  I  am  going  —  you  know  they  say  we  are  to  have  peace. 

Kekulin. —  Mother  Matrena,  Possilowitsch  said  so,  too. 

Andrew. —  It  may  come  over  night,  like  the  war. 

Grisha. —  No,  no.  You  only  want  to  quiet  us.  It  is  Sasha's  last  night. 
The  last  night.  To-morrow  they  will  take  him  out  into  the  court  and  shoot 
him  dead.  And  he  won't  ever  say  a  word  in  his  defense;  he  does  not  need 
it  because  he  is  so  good.  Oh,  mother,  mother!  (She  prostrates  herself 
beside  MATRENA  and  hides  her  head  in  the  old  woman's  lap.) 

Matrena  (in  despair). —  Child  —  child!  I  can't  bear  it  —  can't  bear 
it  any  longer! 

Andrew. —  Be  quiet,  sister.  You  are  only  exciting  mother  Matrena 
so  much  more. 

Kekulin. —  I  told  him :  Sasha,  said  I,  don't  be  so  stupid,  it  is  not  so  bad, 
after  all,  to  be  in  the  army. 

Andrew  (gently  putting  his  arm.  about  MATRENA'S  shoulder). —  Mother 
dear,  money  worries  will  be  spared  you  as  soon  as  my  wounds  are  healed. 

Grisha  (raising  her  tear-stained  face). —  Yes,  mother,  I  too  will  be  strong. 
Did  he  not  write  we  should  not  weep  for  him  ?  Mother,  I  shall  be  your 
daughter  henceforth.  I  shall  love  you.  Before  your  lips  utter  them  I 
shall  read  all  your  wishes  in  your  eyes. 

Matrena. —  You  are  all  so  good.  (Caresses  GRISHA'S  hair.)  But  my 
Sasha,  my  Sasha!  To  die  so  young. 

Kekulin. —  Sh,  sh,  sh!     You'll  wake  Marianushka. 

Mananushka  (tosses  about  feverishly). 

Matrena. —  She  is  sleeping.     God  forgive  my  sin,  but  I  wished 

Andrew. —  What  did  you  wish,  mother  Matrena  ? 

Matrena. —  Oh,  never  mind.  But  I  only  said  —  if  they  really  shoot 
him,  then  —  then  — (she  smiles  absently). 

Grisha  (hastily,  with  eyes  aflame). —  Yes,  yes!  I  shall  do  something, 
mother.  I  am  going  to  avenge  him.  Avenge  him. 

Andrew  (quietly). —  What  will  you  do? 

Grisha  (abruptly). —  Did  he  not  write  that  his  action  shall  be  a  seed  ? 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  159 

A*seed  that  will  not  die  ?     I  am  the  next  one  to  be  killed  —  after  I  have 
killed  his  murderers. 

Andrew  (very  quietly}. —  You  will  do  nothing  of  that  kind,  sister.  You 
do  not  even  know  his  murderers. 

Grisha. —  I  shall  learn  who  gave  the  order  to  kill  him. 

Andrew. —  Grisha,  whom  will  you  benefit  by  it  ?     Surely  not  Sasha  ? 

Grisha  (with  a  start}. —  Sasha?  No,  no,  not  Sasha.  You  are  right. 
But  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  must  do  something  that  will  avenge  him  ? 

Andrew  (with  a  hollow  voice). —  Wait,  Grisha.  Perhaps  we  shall  soon 
have  peace.  Perhaps  they  will  pardon  him,  or  be  content  with  a  few  years 
of  penal  labor. 

Grisha  (faltering}. —  Yes— yes.  Then  I  could  go  with  him.  Could 
suffer  everything  with  him. 

Kekuhn. —  Sh,  sh,  sh  —  Marianushka. 

Mananushka  (moves  and  groans.  All  listen). —  Why,  yes.  But  I 
can't  —  not  so  quickly  —  Oh,  oh  - 

Matrena. —  It  is  the  second  day  that  she  is  delirious. 

Grisha. —  Oh,  mother,  I  never  knew  what  a  mother  has  to  suffer. 

Marianushka  (crying  out}. — No,  no.     Let  it  alone.    Notthat — notthat! 

Matrena. —  And  yet  she  sleeps.  We  must  be  quiet.  It  excites  her 
when  we  talk. 

Andrew. —  If  Petrushka  knew. 

Grisha  (whispering  timidly). —  Last  night  when  I  was  sitting  up, 
she  called  Petrushka  all  the  time.  It  was  horrible.  It  was  such  a  quiet 
night.  You  could  not  help  being  afraid.  "  Do  you  see  him,  mother  ?  " 
she  called  and  pointed  to  the  blank  wall.  "  Do  you  see  him  wiping  his 
blood  ?  "  I  shuddered  when  I  heard  her  cry  out :  "  Petrushka,  Petrushka !  " 

Kekulin. —  And  when  she  learns  that  the  child  is  dead 

Grisha. —  She  sang,  too.     Suddenly  she  began : 

In  the  mountains  sang  the  nightingale, 
So  sweetly  it  sang; 
The  song  my  sweetheart  sang, 
More  sweetly  rang, 
Now  he  has  gone  to  war! 

Marianushka. —  Oh,  oh,  my  child,  my  darling.     Sleep  —  sleep. 

Grisha. —  Listen,  she  is  talking  of  the  baby. 

Marianushka. —  My  little  Petrushka  —  are  you  well  ?  You  are  laugh- 
ing. Don't  laugh  so,  don't  laugh!  It  hurts  me. 

Andrew. — Mother  Matrena,  move  her  pillow  a  little,  her  head  hangs  down. 

Marianushka.  —  You  want  me  to  come  ?  You  do  ?  (She  motions  in 
her  sleep,  her  face  is  radiant.}  Yes,  I  will  come,  I  am  coming,  Petrushka. 


160  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Kekulin  (at  the  baby's  basket}. —  There  it  lies,  the  little  one.  And  it  is 
dead,  and  the  mother  does  not  know  it.  What  does  one  live  for,  anyway  ? 
If  —  if  you  are  gone  so  suddenly  as  that,  and  know  nothing  of  yourself. 

Matrena. —  Come,  Dmitri,  one  should  not  look  like  that  into  the  face 
of  a  corpse.  It  will  disturb  its  peace  in  the  grave. 

Andrew  (with  head  bowed,  nods  sadly). —  Out  there  we  did  not  look  at 
our  dead,  neither.  We  had  mountains  of  them.  Face  downward  we  laid 
them  into  the  large  black  holes.  We  could  not  throw  the  earth  into  their 
open,  staring  eyes  —  I  —  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it.  For  when  I  do  — 
(suddenly  with  an  uncanny  absent  stare).  It  will  do  no  more.  It  is  beyond 
man's  power  to  bear  it.  Sasha  has  done  right.  No  revolt,  no  —  but 
simply  say  you  can't.  It  is  too  horrible.  It  is  no  longer  human. 

Grisha  (wildly). —  See,  Andrew,  Sasha's  deed  is  a  seed  that  will  bear 
fruit.  You  yourself  - 

Andrew  (slowly,  with  an  uncanny  composure). —  I,  myself —  well,  what 
of  it  ?  Am  I  not  quiet  ?  What  do  you  want  ? 

Grisha. —  You  only  seem  quiet.  If  you  think  of  war  you  are  like  one 
beside  himself. 

Andrew  (with  an  effort  to  change  the  subject;  slowly). —  Mother  Matrena, 
it  is  useless  for  you  to  try  to  watch  to-night. 

Grisha. —  To-night  it  is  my  turn.     Oh,  please,  dear,  dear  mother. 

Kekulin  (touching] y). —  Mother  Matrena,  you  really  must  have  some 
sleep.  If  you  are  willing,  I  am  going  to  sit  up.  When  Anushka  asks, 
"  Dmitri,  how  is  the  baby  ?  "  I  shall  make  a  stupid  face  and  say,  "  Marian- 
ushka,  he  is  a  splendid  boy.  He  laughs  the  whole  evening,"  and  when  she 
says,  "  Come,  give  him  to  me,"  then  will  I  say,  "  Not  to-night,  my  dove, 
it  is  almost  ten,  and  when  you  look  at  him  with  your  big  eyes  he  might  be 
frightened.  To-morrow,  Marianushka,  to-morrow."  Mother  Matrena^ 
shan't  I  sit  up  ?  I  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  since  Polyakin  - 

Matrena. —  You  are  a  good  man,  Dmitri.     But  to  think  of  sleep  when 
one's  child  is  in  danger  ? 

SCENE  II 

The  preceding.     SlPJAGlN  enters  through  the  door  in  rear 

All. —  Sh,  sh,  sh  —  Anushka. 

Sipjagin  (muttering  quietly). —  Well,  well,  I  have  not  said  a  word  so 
far!  Well,  children,  no  more  overtime.  To-night  was  the  end  of  it.  On 
Mikolai  Bridge  there  was  a  dense  crowd,  I  hardly  could  get  through  it. 

Grisha  (trembling). —  If  we  should  have  peace,  if  peace  were  to  come? 
(Changing  her  tone.}  Father,  little  Petrushka  died  an  hour  ago. 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  161 

Sipjagin. —  Oh,  no,  the  little  fellow  ?  Oh,  mother  Matrena,  I  am  very 
sorry.  Really  (stepping  up  to  the  basket}, — good  gracious,  well,  you  can't 
blame  him  (solemnly  shakes  his  head).  Well,  well.  I  think  this  is  for  the 
best.  You  really  can't  blame  him. 

Marianushka  (in  her  sleep}. —  There,  there,  the  big  black  cloth! 

Sipjagin. —  Is  she  still  talking  like  that?  It  has  been  hard  for  her! 
Yes,  life  is  not  beautiful.  It  means  nothing  but  suffering. 

Matrena  (nodding  slowly). —  Suffering.     That's  true;  such  suffering. 

Sipjagin  (starting  as  though  he  had  something  on  his  mind). —  Y-e-s  — 
(Silence.) 

Grisha. —  You  are  all  so  quiet.     (Silence.) 

Sipjagin. —  That's  on  account  of  the  baby.  Where  there  is  death  you 
are  quiet. 

Grisha. —  It  is  just  as  if  you  were  all  waiting  for  some  one  else  to  die. 

Sipjagin  (turns  around  silently). 

Grisha. —  But  you  need  not  act  like  that.  I  —  I  —  I  —  am  not 
crying.  (Sobbing.  Exit  right.) 

Sipjagin  (after  a  little  while). —  It  is  a  great  blow. 

Kekulin. —  All  night  she  has  been  talking  about  him. 

Andrew. —  It  will  be  best  to  leave  her  alone.  Everybody  does  best  in 
working  out  his  own  problems. 

Sipjagin  (to  ANDREW,  who  sits  to  the  front;  softly). —  Andrew,  it  is  all 
over  with  him. 

Andrew  (starting,  with  suppressed  emotion,  also  softly,  hastily). —  What 
do  you  say  ?  What  time  ?  Sasha  ? 

Sipjagin  (nods). —  Be  quiet.     After  supper  I  will  tell  her. 

Andrew. —  But  that  is  impossible  —  so  quickly  ? 

Sipjagin. —  This  morning  (turns  about  cautiously),  I  know  it  from  the 
guard. 

Andrew. —  Who  threw  out  the  letter  to  you  for  Grisha  ? 

Sipjagin. —  I  had  hardly  stood  there  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to-night, 
when  I  saw  him  at  the  window  and  beckoned.  He  looked  down,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  crossed  himself  and  did  —  this  (stealthily  indicates  death 
by  hanging). 

Andrew  (stands  in  silence;  stares  at  the  floor). —  Not  even  a  soldier's 
death  did  they  allow  him  ? 

Kekulin  (who  has  been  listening  without  understanding). —  What  is 
the  matter  ?  Another  letter  ? 

Sipjagin. —  Not  to-night,  Dmitri. 

Andrew  (without  another  word  slowly  exit,  right). 

Sipjagin  (whispering  after  him). —  Do  it  gently,  Andrew. 


1 62  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

Kekulin. —  What  is  it  those  two  have  together.  (He  shakes  his  head, 
stands  still  for  a  moment,  and  turns  to  MATRENA.)  Yes,  mother  Matrena, 
supposing  I  sit  up  ?  (He  receives  no  reply.) 

Matrena  (sits  in  a  chair  in  utter  helplessness}. 

Kekulin. —  I  —  I  think  —  I  could  do  it  ?     (Pause.} 

Matrena  (staring  before  her  in  a  stupor}. —  Kekulin  - 

Kekulin.—  Mother  Matrena  ? 

Matrena. —  When  I  was  a  young  girl  of  sixteen,  an  old,  old  woman  told 
my  fortune.  From  this  hand,  it  was;  when  I  was  going  with  Fedor. 

Kekulin. —  And  what  did  she  say  ? 

Matrena. —  She  said:  you  will  have  children,  and  you  will  not  have 
children. 

Kekulin. —  Well,  that's  the  way.     What  can  be  done  about  it  ? 

Matrena  (trembling}. —  I  —  I  have  children  and  I  have  none.  Oh, 
Dmitri,  Fedor  was  just  like  Sasha.  He  was  so  good,  so  good.  He  died  too 
early  for  the  children.  They  would  not  have  had  to  live  in  a  cellar.  (Weeps.} 

Kekulin  (touchingly). —  Now,  now,  old  woman?  Don't  weep  like 
that.  You  only  make  me  sad,  too. 

Matrena  (nodding). —  Your  life  long  you  never  get  tired  of  weeping,  no 
more  than  of  bread. 

Kekulin. —  That's  so.     They  belong  together,  Matrena.     Shall  I  sit  up  ? 

Matrena. —  I  am  going  to  call  you,  father  Dmitri,  if  —  if  —  I  should 
need  you. 

Grisha  (enters  from  right). 

Kekulin. —  Well,  you  are  going  to  have  company.  Good  night, 
mother  Matrena.  (Exit  left.} 

Grisha. —  I  have  been  rash,  mother  Matrena,  but  I  love  him  so  - 

Matrena  (mechanically  stroking  her  hair). —  Yes,  yes!  You  do  love 
him. 

Grisha. —  And  he  loves  me. 

Matrena. —  And  he  loves  you. 

Grisha. —  That  is  why,  mother  (she  puts  her  arms  about  MATRENA) 
that  is  why  I  am  now  your  daughter. 

Matrena  (sits  quietly  with  folded  hands). 

Grisha. —  Am  I  not  your  daughter  ? 

Matrena. —  By  the  Holy  Mother,  you  are ! 

Grisha  (rising  softly}. —  Shall  I  keep  watch  to-night  ? 

Matrena. —  After  midnight  you  may  come. 

Grisha. —  You  should  lie  down.     You  must  be  worn  out. 

Matrena. —  After  —  midnight. 

Grisha  (kisses  her). —  Very  well,  mother,  I  shall  wait.     (Softly  exit.) 


WIEGAND  AND  SCHARRELMANN  163 

SCENE  III 
MATRENA.     MARIANUSHKA. 

(MATRENA  sits  in  her  chair  praying.  Her  mumbling  is  heard.  She 
stares  wearily  in  front  of  her  and  finally  falls  asleep.  The  candle  on  the  table 
burns  faintly.  The  rear  of  the  room  is  dark.} 

Marianushka  (awakes  and  sits  up). —  Yes,  yes.  The  drums  are  beating, 
"  Romidom  —  Romidom."  (She  listens  as  to  sounds  in  the  distance.}  I 
must  put  up  my  hair  —  it  is  so  long  since  I  looked  pretty.  (She  fusses  with 
her  loose  black  hair.}  He  liked  me  to  open  it  at  night.  Now  he  will  come 
home  never  more  and  Marianushka  sits  and  weeps!  (Silence.  Then 
poeple  are  heard  walking  past  on  the  street  and  talking.}  I  —  I  know  it. 
The  little  wound  with  the  black  rim  in  your  breast,  close  below  the  mole  — 
I  was  there  when  that  bullet  struck  you  —  Marianushka  saw  it  and  could 
not  help  you.  (Pause.  Looking  up.}  What  does  my  dolly  want  ?  Can 
you  laugh  ?  (She  laughs  softly.)  Well  ?  Such  an  angry  face  ?  Oh,  oh. 
Why  should  you  cry  so?  Is  it  not  enough  if  Marianushka  cries?  (With  a 
strange  and  absent  look.)  When  I  was  a  child,  I  had  a  doll.  It  looked  like 
you.  It  stared  at  me,  never  moving,  like  you  (smiling).  Doll  eyes!  Put 
away  the  cradle!  I  don't  want  to  see  the  child!  (She  stares  before  her.) 
What  have  I  to  do  with  the  child  ?  (Pause.  Then  she  sings.) 

In  the  mountains  sang  the  nightingales 

So  sweetly  they  sang! 

The  song  my  sweetheart  sang 

More  sweetly  rang,— 
Now  he  has  gone  to  war! 

How  dark  it  is  here!  As  in  Petrushka's  grave.  There  he  lies  and  wants 
to  get  out  and  can't  and  wants  to  cry,  to  call,  Marianushka,  Marianushka! 
But  the  grave  digger  comes  and  digs  and  digs  and  never  helps  him.  Oh, 
there  you  are.  (PETRUSHKA  appears  in  center.}*  Why,  they  shot  you, 
you  and  the  others  ? 

I  know  a  little  flower 

Deep  in  the  valley,  deep  — 
That  flower  will  I  pluck 

For  you  to  keep! 

*It  is  left  to  the  stage  manager's  judgment,  whether  Marianushka's  hallucination  shall  be 
embodied  by  the  apparition  of  Petrushka  or  not;  certainly  it  is  not  meant  to  be  a 
theatrical  stage  trick. 


1 64  THE  WAGES  OF  WAR 

There!  W7here  is  your  hand?  The  hand  you  gave  me?  You  left  your 
hand  in  the  grave  ?  Why  ?  I  saw  you  first  in  the  garden,  I  know  it  well. 
Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?  I  did  you  no  harm.  Come,  lie  down  beside 
me  (she  moves  as  if  to  make  room.  The  apparition  is  immovable).  It  is 
warm  here.  I  will  kiss  you.  Oh,  come,  or  I  will  come  to  you.  Don't  you 
know  Marianushka  any  more  ?  Yes,  I  have  grown  old.  I  have  been  alone 
so  long.  But  now  I  am  young  again,  and  blithe,  and  there  are  two  of  us. 
Will  you  not  look  at  your  child  ?  There  in  the  basket.  It  is  a  doll.  Its 
eyes  are  of  glass.  Nine  months  I  waited  for  it  —  and  now  that  it  is  here  — 
I  am  not  glad.  It  is  all  suffering.  (Pause,  pleadingly.)  Petrushka,  say 
one  word.  Are  you  hungry  ?  What  —  they  starved  you  out  there  ?  In 
the  drawer  of  the  table  you  may  find  a  few  crusts.  I  have  nothing  else  for 
you.  (Begins  to  cry.)  Only  a  piece  of  hard  bread.  But  look  into  the 
basket.  (The  apparition  slowly  moves  through  the  room  and  bends  over  the 
basket.)  It  is  your  child,  it  has  your  eyes.  I  have  thought  of  it  day  and 
night.  (The  apparition  turns  around.)  It  caused  me  much  suffering. 
But  now,  all  is  well.  (Outside  bells  begin  to  ring.  People  excitedly  hurry 
along.)  Oh,  come!  I  have  waited  and  wept  so  long  for  you.  You  are 
beckoning  me  ?  I  should  go  with  you !  Why  yes,  yes,  I  am  coming. 
Petrushka,  Petrushka !  (she  rises  from  her  bed  and  staggers  towards  center. 
Approaching  the  apparition  with  arms  outstretched,  she  calls  )  Petrushka, 
Petrushka.  (The  apparition  vanishes  and  MARIANUSHKA  utters  a  groan 
of  agony  and  falls  dead.  For  a  time  deep  silence,  then  the  frantic  cry  of 
GRISHA,  followed  by  her  wail:  "  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before  ?  I  knew 
it  long  ago!  " 

(Enter  GRISHA,  soon  after  SIPJAGJN  and  ANDREW,  rushing  in  from 
right.) 

Gnsha. —  Marianushka,  they  have  killed  him!  They  have  murdered 
him,  Marianushka,  they  have  killed  him! 

Sipjagin,  Andrew  (simultaneously). —  Grisha,  listen!  Grisha,  be 
quiet,  child.  Dear,  dear  Grisha. 

Grisha  (crying  in  the  arms  of  SIPJAGIN). —  Mother,  don't  you  hear  ? 
Mother,  wake  up,  they  have  murdered  Sasha. 

Matrena  (starting  from  sleep,  drowsily). —  Well,  what  is  it?  Marian- 
ushka, what  is  it?  Listen  to  the  bells!  the  bells!  Look  at  the  crowds! 
If  this  were  peace! 

Grisha  (desperately). —  Let  me  go.  Let  me  go.  (Terror stricken.) 
What  do  you  say,  mother?  Peace?  Now  —  peace?  (With  a  gesture  of 
threat.)  Now  ?  No,  —  war!  (Falls  upon  her  knees  sobbing.) 


CORDIA 

(A  drama  in  three  acts) 
BY  HYACINTH  STODDART  SMTH 

PERSONS 

ARGENTINE 

CLUSA,  his  wife 

CORDIA 

MAXIME,  an  elderly  man 

TOINETTA,  a  friend  and  companion  of  Clusa 

LOUISE,  a  friend  of  Toinetta,  visiting  her. 

ACT  I 

(ARGENTINE  and  MAXIME  are  seated  on  the  unroofed  verandah  of  a 
dark-red  and  dreary-looking  house.  It  is  a  place  near  the  sea,  and  far  re- 
moved from  cities.  Morning.} 

Maxime. —  Being  just  you  are  contented. 
Argentine. —  'Tis  but  this 

I  see  what  is  to  see. 
Maxime. —  Preoccupied, 

You  watch  the  world  as  one  who,  at  the  play, 

Forgets  himself  in  interest  profound 

When  Lear  bears  dead  Cordelia  in  his  arms. 

You  look  on  other  men  —  'tis  never  yours 

To  form  a  part  of  what  you  see  or  hear! 
Argentine. —  Clusa  said  something  like  that:  she  too  thinks 

I  am  in  nature  like  to  silver,  cold; 

Or,  as  a  martyr  may  in  burning  feel 

No  pain,  because  his  soul  is  far  aloof, 

So  I'm  abstracted  in  a  thousand  plays 

Of  little  pleasures  in  each  passing  day, 

And  thus  the  fires  of  life  do  not  scorch  me  — 

So  Clusa  says. 
Maxime. —  I  think  since  Cordia  came 

Clusa  appears  more  gay,  more  like  a  girl. 

165 


i66  CORDIA 

Argentine. —  Ah,  I  should  like  to  make  her  always  glad. 

Maxime. —  Yet  you  allow  her  to  select  her  ways, 
And  you  accept  what  comes. 

Argentine.—  She  shall  be  free. 

Maxime. —  Women  do  not  wish  freedom,  Argentine. 
You  say,  indifferent, '  I  cannot  change 
Her  character  or  thought  —  she  lives  her  life.' 

Argentine. —  And  do  I  not,  so  saying,  franchise  her, 
Give  her  own  nature  scope  for  happiness  ? 

Maxime. —  O  foolish  Argentine !  —  from  first  to  last 
We  are  our  brothers'  keepers,  as  I  think, 
And  certainly  our  wives!     What  we  desire 
For  them,  this  makes  them  glad,  not  what  they  wish. 

Argentine. —  I  am  contented,  and  if  she  is  not 

How  could  I  make  content  for  her  where  love 
Did  not  provide  her  with  it  ?     It  is  clear 
All  evil  in  the  world  consists  in  this, 
That  'twixt  the  object  and  the  appetite 
There  is  a  disagreement  —  one  falls  short : 
As  when  man  has  what  he  does  not  desire, 
Or  else  desires  what  he  has  not.     For  Clusa, 
If  she  compare  her  spirit  with  this  life 
That  accident  or  fate  has  given  her, 
She  will,  desiring  not  amiss,  be  happy. 

Maxime.—  'Tis  well  for  you  to  know  a  deep  content 

With  what  you  have  yourself.     But  for  the  one 
With  whom  we  live,  or  for  the  world  of  men, 
We  should  not  be  contented  with  their  wants. 
Believe  you  have  too  much,  but  think  that  they 
Too  little  have  —  this  mends  a  broken  world! 

Argentine  (rising  restlessly). — No  man  can  satisfy  a  world  of  wants; 
To  wish  to,  only  makes  a  want  the  more. 

Maxime. —  Ah,  Argentine,  your  wants  are  really  few; 
You  nobly  deem  that  your  deserts  are  small, 
Holding  yourself  at  modest  valuation. 
My  point  is,  if  we  scant  our  own  desires 
We  from  our  surfeit  save  for  others'  needs. 
You,  my  good  friend,  have  much;  you  have  content: 
But  think  your  Clusa  is  a  prey  to  want, 
And  give  her  all  your  mind  and  heart  can  offer. 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  167 

(The  door  opens  and  CLUSA  comes  upon  the  verandah.     She  is  pale,  with 
a  luminous,  childlike  face.     As  she  advances,  MAXIME  rises.} 
Argentine. —  We  are  contented,  Clusa,  are  we  not  ? 
(CLUSA  hesitatingly  looks  on  ARGENTINE  with  a  slow  movement  of  the 
head.      Tears  come  to  her  eyes.} 

Clusa. —  You  are  a  balanced  great  man,  Argentine! 

Ah,  you  are  ever  easy,  undisturbed; 

The  look  of  life  does  not  affright  your  eyes. 

In  the  simplicity  of  your  large  soul 

You  would  believe  that  every  one  must  be 

As  genuine  as  yourself,  simple  and  calm. 

You  do  not  know  that  in  so  many  minds 

There  are  fine  webs  of  intricate  loves  and  hates, 

Delicate  films  that  shudder  in  the  wind 

Like  the  ethereal  fiber  of  a  cloud, 

And  close  upon  the  beauty  of  the  mind 

As  dewy  weft  on  flowers  of  the  grass ! 

Such  subtile  gossamer  has  never  spun 

Its  threads  upon  your  life.     Clear  in  desire 

For  plain  and  honest  happiness,  you  demand 

The  world  be  not  complex. 

Argentine.—-  Have  I  not  you  ? 

(He  kisses  her  hand  and  passes  out  with  a  book,  humming  contentedly.} 
Clusa  (turning  to  Maxime). — Aught  in  the  vision  to  disturb  his  good 

He  sees  but  as  a  cobweb,  crushes  it, 

Though  circle  upon  circle,  arch  on  arch, 

With  silken  strands  it  fashions,  miracles. 

My  Argentine!  he  is  a  silver  knight, 

Who  would  do  battle  for  the  sake  of  peace 

But  not  for  passion  of  a  heart's  desire. 
Maxime. —  Yes,  nothing  could  tempt  Argentine  to  risk 

Or  jeopardize  his  peace,  not  even  love. 

Clusa    (sitting    beside    a    table    upon    which    is   a    half-finished    oval 
basket  of  withes  and  sweet  grass,  and  beginning  to  weave  it}. — 

Not  love.     His  way  with  Cordia  vouches  that. 

He  plays  with  Cordia  as  a  comrade  would 

With  comrade.     Why,  I  love  her  more  than  he! 

Though  one  would  think  that  here  wTith  Argentine 

I  never  could  be  lonely  or  know  need  — 

He  is  my  source  of  life,  the  branch  I  grow  on  — 


i68  CORDIA 

Yet  other  fruits  may  flourish  on  this  branch, 
And  I  would  reach  to  them,  caressing  them, 
As  rubs  a  peach  its  sisters,  flushed  and  ripe; 
For  until  now  I  never  had  a  friend. 
And  Cordia's  as  innocent  as  fruit 
That  nature  has  perfected  for  man's  joy. 
No  threat  from  her  against  my  husband's  peace. 
But  ah,  from  rne  -  -  'tis  here  the  danger  lies. 
I  think  I  owe  him  truth. 

Maxime.—  The  truth  ?     What  truth  ? 

Clusa. —  The  truth  of  me  and  all  that  I  have  been. 
Less  cannot  satisfy  the  due  of  love. 

Maxime. —  He  does  not  know  ?     You  never  have  had  courage  ? 

Clusa. —  One  time  I  almost  reached  the  strength  to  tell, 
When,  looking  on  the  moon,  I  felt  the  tides 
Of  all  my  better  nature  rushing  on, 
As  does  the  sea  in  August,  when,  at  flood, 
It  fills  the  darkness  of  the  unused  caves 
With  its  delicious  splash.     Then  does  the  moon 
Order  the  waters,  mightily  disturbed, 
To  press  and  urge  their  highest  on  the  shore. 
Oh,  how  my  soul  to  that  pure  light  responded! 
And  then  a  cloud  of  white,  bent  wondrously 
Against  the  clear,  I  saw  lean  in  the  sky, 
As  might  a  suppliant  goddess  who  entreats 
Virtue  within  the  breast  of  erring  ones. 
And  she  became  to  me  the  spirit  of  truth, 
And  she  demanded  of  me  that  I  tell 
To  Argentine  all  that  I  ever  was. 
It  seemed  the  shape  of  that  white-garmented 
Creature  of  moonlit  sky  that  spoke  to  me, 
And  all  her  lines  had  utterance  more  kind 
Than  any  speech;  and  while  I  watched  her  float, 
As  one  might  watch  the  soul-revealing  eyes 
Of  a  beloved  presence  plead  for  hope, 
With  eloquence  of  tears  and  the  entreating 
Of  more  than  words  can  utter,  the  soft  glory 
Of  my  far  cloud  caressed  me  with  its  light 
And  moved  me  with  its  silence  tenderly. 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  169 

Maxime. —  And'  did  you  dream  its  beauty  found  a  voice  ? 
Clusa  (letting  her  work  fall  and  gazing  straight  ahead}. — 

Yes,  this  is  what  I  heard  within  my  soul: 

'  All  mortals  cry  to  know  the  heart  of  truth, 

This  is  their  struggle.     Every  loftiest  spire 

That  lifts  its  high  point  o'er  cathedral  roofs 

Is  raised  by  men  to  symbolize  the  truth 

That  they  would  reach;  and  every  little  school 

Hears  children  prattle  toward  the  far-off  truth. 

For  man  claims  truth  as  surely  as  death  claims  man. 

Strong  souls  in  every  fateful  crisis  call 

Aloud  for  truth,  though  its  returning  voice 

Be  a  swift  stab  to  all  their  hopes  and  longings. 

This  pain  of  truth  is  like  a  martyrdom, 

Sweeter  to  bear  than  any  happiness 

That  comes  in  blindness.     Thus  of  his  just  heaven 

Your  love  you  still  despoil,  who  keep  from  him 

The  truth  about  yourself,  though  like  a  knife 

'Twould  pierce  his  very  vitals.     'Tis  his  right 

To  die  of  what  is  real,  rather  than  live 

Befooled  in  this  deception  dealt  to  him. 

Love  is  not  love  without  sincerity; 

The  unbared  soul  is  love's  most  cherished  prize. 

All  great  men  wish  the  open  face  of  life, 

The  every  deed  of  those  who  cross  their  path 

And  look  them  in  the  eyes.     No  face  must  lie, 

No  sinner  go  unrecognized  his  way. 

Thus  greatness  lives,  and  he  who  crawls  before  it 

Seeking  to  carry  by  some  stain,  some  guilt, 

Some  hidden  wrong,  might  better  with  sharp  fangs 

Have  set  upon  his  master  than  have  kept 

One  action  lost  to  him.     For  truth  twins  death, 

In  being  a  requirement  life  must  meet. 

And  you,  O  Clusa,  you  would  let  him  lie 

Beside  you  in  the  night,  yet  hide  from  him 

This  truth  that  his  great  nature  justly  claims 

And  love  demands  — the  truth  of  all  you  werel  ' 

Thus  spoke  to  me  the  spirit  in  the  cloud. 

But  when  I  looked  on  Argentine  I  found 

It  was  not  in  my  strength  to  clear  my  soul. 


170  CORDIA 

If  he,  being  told,  could  know  and  love  me  still 

Then  all  were  nobly  better  than  before; 

But  if  his  eyes  saw  darkness  deep  in  mine  - 

I  dared  not  risk  — you  see  I  am  a  coward. 

(CLUSA,  having  risen,  clasps  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  humiliation. 
Maxime  takes  both  her  hands  in  his  and  speaks  in  a  voice  of  deep  sympathy? 
understanding,  and  emotion.} 

Maxime.—  That  which  is  unseen,  Clusa,  my  dear  child, 

Is  known  to  men  by  that  which  they  do  see, 

And  you  are  beautiful!     What  language  more 

Need  Argentine  be  given  to  reveal  you  ? 
Clusa. —  You  think  me  beautiful  who  so  have  sinned! 
Maxime. —  Perchance  this  truth  you  speak  of  is  divine, 

And  thus  in  its  high  nature  is  too  much 

For  men  to  hear  and  see.     Truth  must  descend 

To  be  received  by  mortals,  and  to  sink 

It  loses  something,  changes  its  pure  essence 

For  substance  grosser  to  the  human  sense, 

Or  must  be  wholly  hidden,  for  man's  good. 

It  may  be  that  your  love  for  Philip,  Clusa, 

Was  such  a  truth,  which,  shown  to  Argentine 

In  all  the  natural  passion  of  its  being, 

Would  not  be  understood  aright  by  him. 

Clusa  (withdrawing  her  hands). — Oh,  do  not  give  a  voice  to  my  own 
pleadings 

Against  my  better  self!     This  does  not  sit 

Upon  your  years;  you  should'  be  stern  with  me 

And  bring  me  to  my  duty. 
Maxime. —  Ah,  my  years! 

But  all  I  was  is  like  a  memory, 

A  thing  to  be  recounted  and  not  felt. 

So  may  I  talk  and  counsel,  while  you  live 

And  with  your  actions  voice  necessity, 

As  I  describe  and  pardon  it.     Dear  child, 

Sit  here  and  talk  to  me,  and  ease  your  heart. 

(MAXIME  makes  room  on  a  bench  for  the  little  figure  of  CLUSA.     She 
sits  down  slowly  beside  MAXIME,  clasping  her  hands.} 
Clusa. —  My  memory  is  cold  concerning  that 

For  which  I  should  so  poignantly  repent. 

Amid  the  swift  catastrophe  of  love 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  171 

I  had  no  space  for  thinking  —  I  was  rapt 

From  all  the  calmness  serving  meditation. 

And  since  that  time  my  mind  can  travel  back 

But  limply  and  without  the  power  of  vision. 

So  betwixt  heat  of  deeds  and  chill  of  thoughts 

I've  had  small  pause  for  pondering  my  sin. 
Maxime. —  If  time  and  nature  thus  are  merciful, 

Unto  the  guilt,  they  teach  ourselves  to  be  so; 

And  less  of  wrong  than  fate  was  in  your  love. 
Clusa  (after  a  pause). —  Have  you  thought  ever  how  a  tender  rose 

Must  bide  upon  its  stem,  howe'er  it  longs 

To  travel  forth  like  men  ?     It  watches  them 

Walking  about  its  little  roadside  bush 

In  all  the  freedom,  grandeur  of  the  human! 

And  then  a  woman  clips  the  fragrant  flower 

And  puts  it  on  her  breast  and  takes  it  forth 

On  some  far  journey;  but  such  plucking  drains 

The  unheld  sap,  until  the  blossom  dies. 

To  walk  men's  ways,  the  rose,  though  it  should  rest 

On  never  so  fair  a  bosom,  droops  and  fades. 

And  as  the  stranger  to  the  rose,  Love  is 

The  ravager  of  man.     For  oh,  how  free, 

Unto  us  mortals,  looks  the  flying  course 

Of  this  great  goddess  Love!     Till  in  our  place 

We  nod  and  lean  and  wonder  and  aspire 

To  be  borne  up  aloft  upon  Love's  wings 

And  know  that  heavenly  triumphant  flight! 

Then  one  day  comes  the  goddess,  reaches,  takes 

The  human  blossom,  bears  it  far  away, 

And  through  some  nights  and  days  it  breathes  the  breeze 

Of  swiftness,  which  beyond  all  earthly  winds 

Gives  to  the  caught  soul  that  inebriant  air 

Which  is  the  motion  of  Love's  mighty  wings! 

But  ah,  upon  this  flight  we  are  consumed 

As  on  the  maiden's  breast  the  warmed  rose  dies. 
Maxime. —  The  rose  would  fade  and  fall  if  left  alone. 
Clusa. —  Yes,  yes.     So  we  accept  —  how  willingly!  — 

This  fateful  journey,  eagerly  we  wait 

For  love's  wings  to  brush  by    us  on  our  path. 

With  pale  uplifted  petals  I  besought 


i/2  CORDIA 

Consuming  love  to  come,  and  lo!  and  lo! 

She  stooped  and  took  me  on  her  dizzy  flight, 

Her  pitiless  passage  through  that  region  vast 

Of  rain  and  storm  and  moon  and  sun  and  stars; 

And  in  her  arms  I  was  a  prisoner, 

And  from  her  path  I  saw  the  deeps  of  life! 
Maxime. —  Then  did  the  thought  of  Philip  so  inspire  you  ? 
Clusa, —  It  was  as  if  I  dreamed.     Awakening  came, 

And  when  I  looked,  Philip  was  there  no  more, 

And  it  was  Argentine  I  traveled  with. 
Maxime. —  And  now  you  love  as  one  who,  gently  floating, 

Sees  life  arise  like  banks  of  summer  flowers. 

Drink  deep  their  fragrance,  and  let  slip  the  past! 

The  flow  of  time  has  carried  you  thus  far. 

Why  should  you  hasten  it  ?     It  will  sweep  on 

And  soon  enough  bring  heavy  destiny 

To  all  of  us. 
Clusa. —  It  would  be  sweet  to  drift 

And  watch  the  flowers.     One  blossom  near  my  stream 

Enriches  shore  and  air  transcendently, 

As  if  she  bent  and  swayed  with  all  her  weight 

Of  singular  deliciousness  of  beauty. 
Maxime. —  What  blossom  do  you  mean  —  your  Cordia  ? 
Clusa. —  Yes,  Cordia  —  a  rose  Love  has  not  plucked 

And  borne  away. 
Maxime. —  She  is  a  waiting  rose, 

But  how  she  waits! 

Clusa  (looking  puzzled,  is  about  to  question  MAXIME,  when  she  sees 
CORDIA). — 

Look,  she  is  coming  now. 

(CoRDlA,  straight  and  languid,  with  a  far-away,  wistful  gaze  and  smile, 
comes  upon  the  verandah.     She  always  has  the  motion  of  trying  to  cover  her 
heart  either  with  hands  or  drapery.     CLUSA  embraces  her.} 
Clusa. —  How  slim  your  little  body,  Cordia, 

And  how  soft  your  kiss! 
Cordia.—  I  sometimes  think 

There's  no  such  thing  as  body  —  there's  but  flame. 
(ARGENTINE  re-enters.     CORDIA  seems  to  avoid  looking  at  him.} 
Maxime. —  Yes,  we're  all  flame,  the  living  part  of  us. 

Youth  passes  as  the  morning's  colors  pass, 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  173 

Leaving  the  world  the  same,  yet  not  the  same; 

For  it  is  evanescent  as  the  dawn, 

Whose  very  beauty  burns  itself  away. 
Clusa. —  Then  nature  would  instruct  us  to  enjoy, 

That  youth  and  beauty  which  cannot  endure. 

This  loveliness  of  earth,  if  we  revere  it, 

Enters  our  souls  and  makes  our  love  more  rich. 
Cordia. —  Does  not  our  love  cause  us  to  feel  the  beauty 

That  heaven  and  earth  make  us  familiar  with  ? 

Those  who  love  not  are  sightless  as  the  blind. 

(CoRDiA  begins  to  look  at  ARGENTINE,  and  looks  and  looks  with  one  long 
gaze.  The  others  see  it,  and  CLUSA  watches  ARGENTINE  and  CORDIA 
jealously.} 

Maxime. —  Even  the  blind,  I  think,  might  be  content 

Could  they  behold  but  once  our  sunrise  here. 

Have  you  seen,  Cordia,  the  rainbow  glow 

Of  these  seraphic  dawns  from  out  the  sea  ? 

Innocence  dwells  in  them,  so  too  the  power 

Of  great  creation's  matchless  majesty. 

Dawn  has  such  colors  as  no  time  else  has, 

For  certain  hues  exclusively  are  hers, 

Making  for  us  new  regions  of  delight. 

So  morning  seems  the  hour  that's  nearest  heaven, 

Since  fresher  is  its  splendor  than  the  day's. 
Argentine. —  Yes,  Cordia  has  risen  ere  the  sun; 

I  saw  her  at  her  window  yesterday 

Before  the  red  orb  with  slow  hesitance 

Had  left  the  sea.     And  Cordia's  hair  was  loose, 

And  it  was  streaming  over  her  shoulders  then 

When  I  beheld  her,  as  the  moonlight  streams 

Striated  on  the  shoulder  of  a  wave 

That  breaking  seems  to  throw  back  tossing  hair 

Of  palely  shining  gold. 
Cordia. —  You  saw  me  then  ? 

Argentine. —  I  think  I  did  not  see  you,  just  your  hair. 

Have  you  not,  Clusa,  praised  her  tresses'  gold  ? 
«  Clusa  (putting  aside  her  ^ealousy  and  smoothing  CORDIA'S  hair). 

She  is  an  angel  crowned  with  light  from  heaven. 

Her  fairness  seems  a  holy  thing  to  me. 


174  CORDIA 

Maxime. —  You  mount  so  high  in  our  love,  Cordia, 

Because  you  have  such  depth. 
Cordia.—  I  cannot  hide  it. 

Maxime. —  Ah,  I  have  seen  it,  but  the  rest  have  not. 
Clusa. —  What  do  you  mean  ?     You  speak  in  mysteries. 
Cordia. —  He  means  my  power  to  love! 
(CLUSA  starts,  MAXIME  looks  at  CORDIA  warmngly.) 
Maxime. —  And  to  be  kind ! 

Cordia. —  How  can  one  hide  one's  heart  ? 
Clusa. —  'Tis  easier 

To  hide  one's  heart  than  to  reveal  its  all. 
Maxime. —  For  you,  though  not  for  her!     But,  Cordia, 

When  youth  is  true  and  kind,  its  beauty  makes 

That  kindness  simpler  and  more  beautiful 

Than  could  the  wisdom  of  experience. 

Kindness  in  youth  is  like  the  resurrection 

Full  of  the  glory  of  an  infinite  promise. 

While  on  me,  Cordia,  gentleness  would  sit 

Weighted  with  reminiscence  and  with  tears. 

O 

Cordia. —  But  I  have  wept,  Maxime. 
Clusa.—  Dear  Cordia, 

Come,  put  your  arms  about  me  and  be  happy. 
Where'er  you  go  you  scatter  roses  red, 
Whose  beauty  makes  us  better  and  more  glad. 
Cordia  (speaking  very  slowly  and  directly,  looking  at  ARGENTINE). 
Do  you  see  heart-red  roses  dropping  down 
Wherever  I  am  going,  Argentine  ? 

(She  takes  her  hand  away  from  her  heart.     All  look  at  her.     ARGENTINE 

starts.     He  alone  seems  to  see  blood  above  her  breast,  a  red  spot  on  her  gown.} 

Argentine  (as  if  to  himself). —  There's  blood  above  her  heart,  and  it 

drips  down! 

(Then  aloud,  looking  at  Cordia). —  I  see  you've  lost  the  roses  from 
your  cheeks. 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  175 

ACT  II 

(Two  young  women  are  seated  on  low  chairs  in  a  large,  rather  bare  room 
of  the  red  house  by  the  sea.  The  women  are  embroidering.  It  is  late  after- 
noon.) 

Louise. —  Clusa  and  Argentine  are  always  paired. 
Toinetta. —  They're  very  happy. 
Louise.—  They  are  fond  of  the  sea. 

Toinetta. —  They  walk  upon  the  hills  and  in  the  woods, 

And  find  the  rocks  as  good  as  royal  thrones. 

They  love  this  country.     Oft  abroad  at  night 

They  thrust  their  torches  into  faggot  piles 

To  watch  the  flames,  and  from  the  flames,  the  sea. 
Louise. —  Why  does  the  charm'd  girl  go  so  often  with  them, 

The  stranger  who  looks  long  at  Argentine  ? 
Toinetta. —  He  does  not  see  her,  though  she  sees  but  him. 
Louise.— • 'Tis  plain  that  Clusa  loves  her,  sister-like. 
Toinetta  (putting  down  her  work  and  looking  dreamily  away). — - 

Oh,  Clusa  pities  her.     You  know  they  say 

A  story  goes  abroad  of  one  strange  night 

When  she  upon  a  hill,  midsummer  eve, 

Was  victim  of  a  spell. 
Louise  (rising  and  walking  up  and  down).  — The  gypsies  tell  it! 

Their  fierceness  is  like  fire  that  eats  the  woods, 

And  makes  the  saplings,  by  the  flames  unleafed, 

Like  shadows  lean.     Cordia  has  been  a  stem 

For  their  hot  words,  and  who  knows  why  but  they. 
Toinetta. —  I  know  not  why:  perhaps  'tis  fantasy, 

For  they  say,  speaking  of  this  Cordia, 

There  was  a  young  girl  once,  slender,  intense, 

Who  took  the  rising  fever  from  the  earth, 

That  burns  in  summer  nights,  within  her  veins. 

She  never  lost,  deep  in  her  circled  eyes, 

The  memory  of  darkness.     In  her  heart, 

As  glows  a  candle's  flame  within  a  lantern 

Made  of  a  melon  on  all  hallow  e'en, 

A  strange  hot  core  of  fire  all  palely  burned, 

A  jet  of  inextinguishable  life. 
(LouiSE  seats  herself  again.} 

Surely  at  some  time  when  she  was  asleep 


176  CORDIA 

She  had  gone  forth  upon  the  dusty  road 

In  a  June  darkness;  and  there  lost  and  led 

Up  hill,  down  vale,  by  Morpheus  and  his  train, 

She  trailed  sweet  musk  that  delicately  marked 

Her  unwilled  way  along  oppressive  miles. 

And  in  her  skirts  for  ever  after  stayed 

The  pollen  of  that  slow-respiring  night. 

On  a  hillside  she  paused  —  a  tranced  place  where, 

As  murmuring  bees  drone  o'er  the  flowered  earth, 

Midsummer  breathed,  heavy  with  redolent  odors. 

And  all  the  steeped  ground  gave  into  the  night 

A  close  and  ardent  sweetness;  for  the  sun 

Itself  becomes  a  perfume  in  the  dark, 

Changing  its  beams  from  gold  to  frankincense. 

Cordia  received  this  essence  of  the  sun, 

She  has  in  her  the  orange  light  of  noon, 

Changed  to  aroma,  a  mysterious  myrrh, 

Night  fragrances  ambrosial,  born  of  fire. 

Louise. —  Night,  says  Bernard  the  saint,  is  the  great  light 
Of  heavenly  pleasures;  and  so  speaks  love  too. 

Toinetta. —  Listen,  I  have  not  ended.     Cordia 

Was  so  fatigued,  her  little  heart  appeared 

A  throbbing  spot  of  blood  upon  her  breast 

And  still  they  led  her,  these  midsummer  dreams, 

And  she  so  weary,  with  her  little  sides 

Beating  all  soft  and  warm!     And  she  went  on, 

Drooping  and  white,  along  the  fragrant  hedges 

And  moonlit  spaces  where  releasing  earth 

Breathed  the  warm  odors  upward  through  the  trees. 

Yet  from  that  night  she  gained  such  energy 

To  spend  in  love,  that,  to  a  lover's  gaze, 

They  say  she  seems  to  spill  her  heart's  red  blood, 

Which  still  supplies  itself.     And  from  that  night 

She  filled  herself  with  sweetness  and  dark  warmth 

Forever  now  her  lips  recall  slow  tears 

In  their  red  drooping;  and  her  shadowed  eyes 

The  passionate  mournfulness  of  summer  night. 

Not  with  the  fate  of  the  ancient  wandering  Jew 

Doomed  by  the  Christ  to  walk  till  the  world's  end, 

Does  witching  night  impose  its  victim's  curse; 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  177 

It  but  intensifies  this  life's  brief  heat, 

And  bids  one  burn  and  burn,  a  torch  of  longing. 

Thus  did  the  girl  return  from  out  that  night 

Of  honeysuckle  and  wild  trumpet-flower 

And  clematis,  to  be  herself  the  pale 

Exotic  tenderness  of  dusk  and  flowers, 

And  breathe  forth  ardor  and  excess  of  sweet! 
Louise. —  Surely  she  looks  as  if  some  weird  event 

Had  thus  estranged  her  from  all  other  maids. 

But  I  believe  her  natural  and  good, 

A  stranger  in  our  life  who  should  be  loved. 

They  say  no  one  has  learned  her  parentage 

And  that  she  came  alone  into  this  place. 
Toinetta. —  The  strangers  do  most  harm.     Those  men  who  come 

With  pedigree  and  kinship  form  a  part 

Of  a  great  chain  in  common-day  events. 

They  are  as  vessels  bound  from  port  to  port, 

Mounting  the  sea  with  pride,  for  they  have  cleared, 

They  sail,  and  they  shall  ride  into  their  harbor. 

But  he  or  she  who  comes  from  God  knows  where 

Has  not  a  port,  but  child  of  air  and  sea 

Roams  as  a  pirate,  other  ships  his  goal. 

Thus  strangers  make  us  be  their  landing-places 

Instead  of  those  necessities  that  rise 

As  harbors  safe  for  the  related  man. 

Unheralded  creep  strangers  on  our  path, 

And  we  must  put  them  by,  else  take  them  up 

As  parasites  that  leech-like  suck  our  lives. 
Louise. —  Clusa  has  done  this  last!     I  pray  that  she 

May  never  have  a  reason  to  regret. 
Toinetta  (rising  and  going  to  a  window  looking  seaward). 

O  Argentine,  calm,  good  as  any  youth, 

Will  ne'er  let  menace  of  a  stranger  grow 

To  bring  to  him  and  Clusa  any  harm! 

They've  lit  their  fire  already  on  the  beach. 

The  twilight  comes  apace,  and  we  should  go. 

(They  gather  up  their  work  and  pass  out.  The  scene  opens  at  the  back 
and  shows  a  fire  burning  on  the  sea  sand.  The  girl  CORDIA  is  seated  alone  by 
the  fire,  gazing  into  it.  Sound  of  the  sea  is  heard.  There  is  moonlight  on 
the  water.} 


178  CORDIA 

Cordia. —  The  Two  will  come.     Ah  me,  always  the  Two, 

Clusa  and  Argentine,  so  wills  the  world. 

And  with  perverseness  more  perverse  than  fate 

They  look  upon  themselves  like  men  who  say 

'Tis  time  to  eat,  or  time  to  go  to  sleep. 

My  heart  is  dropping,  dropping  its  red  light! 

(She  makes  a  movement  of  trying  to  draw  her  drapery  about  her,  and 
speaks  passionately.) 

I  cannot  hide  its  beating,  cannot  bid 

This  dreadful  overflow  be  staunched,  and  cease 

To  drain  the  current  that  will  spill  my  strength. 

But  he  —  but  Argentine  has  never  known! 

How  I  have  looked  to  let  him  see  my  heart, 

But  like  a  man  in  mail  he  seems  encased 

And  gazes  on  me  with  unmoving  mien! 

Oh,  how  I  want  his  love!     How  many  a  time 

Have  I  before  him  stood,  a  speechless  child, 

Until  I  trembled  with  my  agitation; 

And  Argentine  has  never  seen  at  all! 

Ever  he  seems  at  Clusa  to  be  looking. 

They  surely  have  dwelt  long  upon  each  other, 

These  two  that  men  have  left  unto  themselves. 

It  is  the  mortal  in  them  holds  them  so; 

Divinity  but  for  a  moment  breathes 

Upon  this  earth,  and  that  which  stays  and  stays 

Proves  by  stability  its  limitation. 

(ARGENTINE  enters  alone.  CORDIA  rises  and  hastily  draws  her  garment 
about  her,  and  then  she  looks  at  him  with  long  intensity.  He  meets  her  eyes, 
and  going  to  her  takes  her  hand.  CORDIA  says  in  a  half  whisper:) 

I  want!     I  want!     I  want! 
Argentine. —  Sweet  Cordia! 

Cordia. —  Oh,  you  have  known  —  have  seen! 
Argentine. —  I  do  know  now. 

Cordia. —  But  now,  and  not  before  ? 
Argentine. —  I  cannot  say. 

I  seem  to  see  you  now  for  the  first  time, 

As  if,  when  I  passed  by  this  place,  you  stood 

As  might  earth's  fairest  first  revealed  to  sight. 
Cordia  (in  a  whisper). —  And  Clusa  there  ? 
Argentine. —  I  give  what's  mine  to  give. 

(He  kisses  her.) 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  179 

Cordia. —  Ah,  you  have  come  at  last  to  take  your  own! 

For  you  I've  cried  the  lonely  long  night  through; 

But  all  the  day  I've  seemed  to  take  from  you 

Fresh  courage  for  this  waiting  for  my  love. 
Argentine. —  Oh,  what  a  palpitating  little  heart! 
Cordia. —  It  bleeds,  it  bleeds  with  every  beat,  for  you. 
Argentine. —  It  still  shall  beat,  but  must  not  bleed  again. 

I  feel  it  now,  throbbing  and  sobbing  there 

Within  your  breast  like  to  a  captive  bird, 

Entangled  in  a  cage  of  clinging  flowers. 

With  humming  wings  it  vainly  tries  to  fly 

To  look  upon  the  sweetness  where  'tis  hid. 

0  tender  flowers,  with  the  bird  heart  within, 

1  would  release  so  gently  caught  a  creature 
Only  that  it  might  see  its  petaled  prison. 

Cordia. —  Oh,  is  it  certain  you  love  me  at  last  ? 
Argentine. —  I  am  your  heart  released!     'Tis  I  shall  cling 

About  the  speechless  wonder  of  the  flowers, 

And  all  your  perturbation  shall  with  me 

Find  a  deliverance  upon  your  lips. 

You  are  such  sweet  as  your  own  spirit  would  sip, 

So  I  will  for  your  hidden  self  do  duty; 

I'll  be  the  soul  that  seeks  your  trembling  mouth, 

The  heart  made  free  from  this  too  tender  cage, 

Escaped  and  resting  in  its  loveliness. 

Come,  housed  and  hidden  self,  sweet  prisoner, 

Come,  timid  soul  of  Cordia,  bleeding  heart, 

I  am  as  you,  and  now,  oh,  now  at  last 

I  look  upon  the  luxury  of  life 

And  breathe  the  perfume  of  supernal  joy! 

My  Cordia !  dear  love ! 

Cordia. —  Here  are  my  lips. 

(She  puts  her  arms  about  him.     After  a  moment  they  begin  to  walk 
slowly  along  the  beach  under  the  moonlight.} 

Argentine. —  As  swims  the  pink  of  sunrise  o'er  the  sea, 

Your  body's  sweetness  is  a  thing  apart, 

Divine  and  luminous,  softer  than  music, 

Tearful  with  stars,  pale  as  the  dying  moon. 

When  you  appear,  I  shall  be  glad  for  day! 
(They  go  off.     CLUSA  looking  through  the  bushes  sees  ARGENTINE  and 


180  CORDIA 

CoRDIA  departing.      Wringing  her  hands  and  weeping,  she  moves  nervously 
and  with  a  creeping  gait  toward  the  fire.     She  is  followed  by  PoiNETTA.) 
Clusa. —  Oh,  why  did  not  you  let  me  come  alone! 
Toinetta. —  I  feared  that  you  might  find  them,  for  I  saw 

Suspicion  written  in  your  face  and  manner. 

Dear  Clusa,  let  me  comfort  you. 
Clusa. —  Toinetta, 

I  bade  him  come  without  me  —  God  knows  why! 
(She  seems  to  listen.) 

What  are  those  little  sounds  of  waves  I  hear  ? 

They  seem  in  some  strange  world,  for  everything 

Held  Argentine  for  me.     Now  that  he's  gone 

Where  are  my  ocean  and  familiar  stars  ? 

Oh,  I  am  far  and  lost! 
(She  takes  hold  of  TOINETTA.) 

Hear,  hear,  Toinetta, 

Those  waves  like  tones  of  some  struck  instrument 

Fall  single,  cold,  precise  with  little  shocks, 

In  a  remote  world's  sure,  relentless  life. 

Hark  to  that  roar  and  that  retreating  tide  — 

They  are  as  if  another  God  than  mine 

Had  them  made  and  disposed  them  to  be  strange. 

Once  I  knew  Argentine  when  nature  voiced 

The  truth  of  love!     The  face  of  sky  and  sea, 

Instructed  of  our  secret,  seemed  the  book 

Of  what  we  both  might  tell.     The  quiet  rocks 

Gave  certainty  to  love,  and  nature's  peace 

Revealed  the  inwardness  of  our  content. 

So  looking  on  the  ocean  could  we  doubt, 

And  looking  in  the  sky  not  find  love  there  ? 
Toinetta. —  O  Clusa  dear,  he  will  come  back  to  you! 

'Tis  not  your  Argentine  who  thus  has  wandered. 

For  we  are  subject  to  swift  impulses 

That  wield  us  like  the  coming  of  a  storm. 

Strange  waywardnesses,  boine  from  far, 

Play  upon  us  as  wind  on  flame  at  night. 

Whirled  to  the  skies  or  flattened  to  the  earth 

Our  little  light  is  helpless  to  each  gust. 
Clusa. —  Has  Argentine  no  will  then  of  his  own  ? 
(MAXIME  enters  slowly  but  without  hesitation.) 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  181 

Toinetta. —  Oh,  do  you  know,  Maxime  ? 
Maxime. —  Yes,  I  have  seen. 

Clusa. —  And  do  you  think,  you  too,  he  is  a  reed 

That  leans  this  way  or  that  with  every  tide  ? 
Maxime. —  Just  as  the  gods  the  old  Greeks  loved  and  feared 

Would  roam  about  in  all  disguises,  Clusa, 

Inspiring  men  to  do  the  Olympian  will, 

To-day  invisible  forces  still  impel 

Us  to  our  actions.     We  are  victims  yet 

Of  feelings  that  subdue  and  govern  us 

As  if  they  came  from  Venus,  Jove,  or  Mars. 

We  too  have  an  illustrious  company 

Seated  above  us  to  possess  our  souls, 

And  gaze  upon  the  earth  with  the  great  eyes 

Of  the  immortal  gods  that  fate  our  deeds. 

Strange  spirits  of  adventure  shall  espouse 

Their  own  in  human  shape,  even  as  at  times 

In  all  of  us  some  power  of  infinite  truth 

Shall  mould  us  to  an  image  of  a  longing! 

Forces  divine  surround  us  as  the  sun, 

And  there  are  times  when  through  our  very  nature 

They  find  the  springs  of  action. —  Wait,  believe! 
Clusa  (turning  a  sad  and  bewildered  face  on  MAXIME). 

I  love  him,  Maxime,  and  it  seems  to  me 

That  we  have  seen  the  end  of  our  delight. 

Oh,  once  for  us  the  world's  reserve  was  gone, 

And  life  was  kissed  by  life!     Such  love  was  ours 

We  said  each  to  the  other,  "  This  is  I!  " 

And  there  was  light  on  both  of  us  revealed. 

And  now  a  veil  has  fallen  on  the  earth, 

And  Argentine  denies  all  that  I  knew. 
Maxime. —  We  must  believe  that  love  must  fail  at  times, 

Or  else  we  should  neglect  to  keep  it  safe. 

Because  we  know  love  fails  or  turns  aside 

We  cross  life's  thousand  chances  for  dismay 

With  certain  rules  and  judgments  for  our  guidance, 
With  laws  and  institutes,  to  keep  the  course; 
And  these  firm  pilotings  will  lead  to  you. 
Toinetta. —  He  will  return  to  you,  to  find  his  home. 
Maxime. —  Love  without  home  is  passion  all  defenceless, 


i82  CORDIA 

And  he  who  chooses  it  achieves  the  hurt 
That  soldiers  get  who  face  the  foe  unarmed. 
And  love  itself  is  murdered  in  the  man 
Who  risks  its  life,  unsworded,  unprotected! 

Clusa. —  Then  he  can  never  love  again.     Ah  me! 
And  I  must  stay  where  griefs  are  numberless 
And  life  is  weary,  for  my  soul  is  wrounded 
And  must  forever  keep  awake,  awake! 

Maxime. —  How  little,  Clusa,  do  you  know  yourself! 
You  tw6  again  shall  be  life's  intimates 
Who,  reconciled,  forgive  substantial  errors 
And  love  the  better  for  offending  love. 
Necessity  is  an  external  will, 
The  mind  that  lives  in  common  things  around. 
It  shall  command  you  two  to  come  together. 

Toinetta. —  Oh,  how  I  think  of  you  in  this  great  house, 
You  Two  in  its  red  walls,  for  it  is  home!  — 
Here  by  the  sea  where  you  and  Argentine 
Sit  ever  with  content  and  loving  ways. 

Clusa. —  Oh,  what  is  more  divine  than  was  our  love, 
Who  lived  before  the  world,  as  we  were  one! 

Maxime. —  To  me  the  love  of  Cordia's  more  divine. 

Clusa  and  Toinetta  (together). —  Cordia! 

Maxime. —  More  than  love  is  in  her  heart, 

More  than  awakes  in  us  to  meet  the  touch 
Of  wandering  earthly  beauty.     Argentine, 
He,  he  alone,  in  her  full  heart  abides. 
We  all  have  known  of  love,  but  what  she  knows 
Makes  her  afraid  to  speak  the  truth  of  it, 
Lest  it  be  laughed  at  in  a  world  of  sense, 
And  so  her  ways  are  skilful,  quiet  ways, 
Of  silence,  meditation,  and  wise  smiling, 
And  drooping  tenderness  that  most  is  sad. 

Toinetta. —  She  seems,  'tis  true,  the  very  flame  of  love, 
O'erfilled  with  its  red  tide;  her  soul  intense 
Within  her  slender  body  seems  a  pulse 
That  throbs  and  throbs. 

Maxime.—  Then  since  she  is  all  heart 

And  Argentine  has  seen  its  red,  it  cries 
As  to  the  gods  cried  blood  of  victims  slain. 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  183 

Clusa. —  Oh,  who  am  I  to  judge  him  or  blame  her  ? 
Maxime. —  Judge  not  your  own  life,  nor  blame  Argentine, 

Who  yet  shall  sit  beside  you  and  at  home! 
Toinetta. —  And  Cordia  —  what  of  Cordia  ? 
Maxime. —  She  must  weep. 

Toinetta. —  Poor  child  —  do  you  not,  Clusa,  pity  her  ? 
Clusa. —  To  pity  or  forgive,  one  must  know  sins; 

And  as  there  is  forgiveness  at  some  time 

Made  necessary  for  each  one  of  us,  }  '•;  j 

We  all,  I  think,  have  sinned  that  we  may  love 

With  gentleness.     Oh,  yes,  I  pity  her! 

(They  all  look  and  see  CORDIA  returning  alone,  with  long  soft  strides. 
MAXIME  and  TOINETTA  go  quickly  away.  CLUSA  stands  transfixed.  CORDIA 
comes  near  the  fire,  which  has  now  died  to  embers.} 

Cordia  (to  herself}. —  My  heart  is  weeping,  weeping,  at  his  touch, 

With  ecstasy  more  keen  than  was  my  longing. 
(She  becomes  aware  of  CLUSA'S  presence.}  —  Clusa!  here! 
Clusa. —  I  forgive  you,  Cordia, 

With  all  my  heart. 
Cordia  (after  a  long  pause}. —  And  I  forgive  you,  Clusa. 

ACT  III 

(LouiSE  and  TOINETTA  in  deep  mourning  are  seated  on  the  verandah 
of  the  red  house.  MAXIME,  looking  older,  is  with  them.  He  is  gazing  out  to 
sea  while  the  women  are  at  their  embroidery.  It  is  afternoon.} 

Toinetta. —  All  came  as  you  had  said,  Maxime,  except 

This  end  not  dreamt  by  us. 
Louise. —  This  tragedy! 

Toinetta. —  Was  it  not  beautiful  how  he  came  back 

And  never  looked  on  Cordia  again! 
Louise. —  We  had  the  Two  again,  the  happy  Two, 

Always  together,  walking  by  the  sea, 

Or  in  the  red  house  here.     He  seemed  encased 

In  some  conforming  armor  holding  him 

In  every  motion  to  its  silver  shape. 
Toinetta. —  He  never  even  spoke  of  Cordia. 

And  she,  poor  child,  so  wistfully  has  gone 

About  this  place  as  might  a  gbost  bereaved. 


184  CORDIA 

Louise. —  She  haunted  Clusa  till  the  fatal  end. 

Once  I  remember  hearing  Clusa  say, 

Taking  her  in  her  arms,  that  Cordia 

Was  like  a  flame  which,  slight  hut  penetrant, 

So  small  she  almost  slipt  from  one's  embrace, 

Could  yet  insinuate  like  tenuous  fire 

Her  golden  slimness,  till  it  wrapt  and  held 

Its  subtle  strength  about  one  and  within. 
Toinetta. —  I  once  in  pity  put  my  arms  about  her: 

It  seemed  to  me,  despite  her  lack  of  substance, 

She  was  more  real  and  more  persuasive  too 

Than  any  form  or  being  I  had  touched. 
Louise. —  And  Argentine  had  felt  this,  yet  he  came 

And  ever  sat  by  Clusa,  saw  but  her! 

Maxtme  (taking  his  hand  from  his  eyes  and  seeming  to  answer  the  last 
words}. —    They  sat  and  stood  and  moved  in  this  dark  house 

As  creatures  lacking  knowledge  live  and  move 

Perfunctorily  in  an  ordered  world. 

Reason  has  instinct  blind  as  any  brute's: 

Thus  does  it  seem.     For  reason  looking  forth 

With  the  preoccupation  of  the  soul 

Marks  out  the  way  of  life  as  cattle  make 

A  path  upon  the  hills,  unknowingly. 

Each  winding  curve  that  seems  a  thing  thought  out, 

Made  of  free  will  and  humanly  devised, 

That  guides  between  a  sweetly  running  brook 

And  banks  of  rose  or  clumps  of  juniper, 

Is  followed  by  a  choice  transcending  reason. 

The  feet  of  souls  are  sure  to  find  the  trail, 

Souls'  eyes  glimpse  visions  of  man's  destiny 

At  every  turn.     So  do  men  build  up  virtue 

As  birds  their  nests;  and  as  instinctively 

Return  they  always  to  the  common  rule 

Of  good  and  lawful,  as  the  birds  flock  south 

When  winter  is  upon  them.     Thus  great  ends 

Reveal  themselves  in  the  made  ways  of  life. 

God's  purposes  rule  men  as  well  as  birds. 

Is  spirit  less  cunning  and  less  apt  to  have 

A  meaning  in  its  foresight  of  its  needs 

Than  is  the  wild  beast's  instinct  when  he  plays 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  185 

To  sharpen  tooth  and  claw,  for  ends  unguessed  ?   .    .    . 

So  he  returned  to  Clusa  and  obeyed 

One  of  the  laws  by  which  men  build  their  souls. 
Louise. —  The  sheep  through  what  a  death  of  forest  mark 

Their  certain  path!     And  sometimes  by  what  ways 

Of  tender  green  they  plant  their  little  feet 

Along  the  sides  of  vast  and  stony  uplands! 

I've  seen  them  with  white  fleece  upon  the  slope 

Of  a  great  mountain,  browsing  out  their  course 

'Mid  delicate  wildness,  bleating,  calling,  passing, 

Till  curved  and  hollow  between  bush  and  bush 

A  winding  track  told  of  the  safe-led  flock. 
Toinetta. —  And  sometimes  to  remind  of  heaven  there  come 

Visions  of  beauty  as  we  force  our  way 

Where  the  soul's  instinct  leads  us  on  life's  course; 

For  destiny  is  kind,  and  many  a  while 

We  wander  by  her  bidding  near  blue  seas, 

Which  toss  in  such  a  sunshine  that  we  grow 

Enamored  of  our  life.     And  this  was  true 

Of  Argentine  and  Clusa  —  they  were  happy! 
Louise. —  Then  why  did  Clusa  die  ? 
Toinetta.—  She  had  a  secret. 

Louise. —  A  secret  that  had  weight  to  crush  her  life  ? 
Maxime. —  'Tis  often  seen,  one  who  conceals  the  truth 

Is  overcome  as  by  a  stifling  air, 

As  when  men  breathe  the  great  heat  of  the  south 

And,  beat  upon  too  heavily  by  the  sky, 

Imprisoned  far  from  coolness  and  free  heights, 

They  die  of  fervid  sunshine  and  close  vapor. 

Yet,  that  to  Clusa  came  this  form  of  doom 

I  cannot  think.     We  ever  can  endure 

Better  the  ills  we  bring  upon  ourselves 

Than  those  we  suffer  at  another's  hands. 

She  found  her  death  through  Cordia. 
Toinetta.—  You  think  -    —  ? 

Louise. —  'Twas  Cordia  then  who  killed  her,  do  you  mean  ? 
Toinetta. —  Was  then  this  blood  upon  her  heart  the  guilt 

Foreshadowed  in  its  very  punishment  ? 

That  cannot  be! 
Maxime. —  Have  you  beheld,  in  woods, 


1 86  GORDIA 

A  sapling  that  has  grown  to  comeliness 
Weaken  and  wither  when  another  tree 
Takes  all  its  share  of  sun  ?     It  vainly  seeks 
To  thrive  with  foliage  and  recover  strength; 
Its  leaves  untimely  yellow  and  drop  off, 
And  in  its  youthful  hope  the  sapling  dies. 
'Tis  nature's  way.     We  pity  that  which  dies, 
But  cannot  blame  the  strong  tree  that  survives. 
So  too  some  human  lives  from  others  shut 
The  vital  sun  and  air.     The  very  course 
Of  Cordia's  days  was  thus  a  death  to  Clusa. 
No  overt  act  was  requisite,  no  words, 
Not  even  thoughts  of  least  unfriendliness. 
Clusa  was  here  and  Cordia  there;  the  doom 
Of  Clusa  had  no  blame  or  remedy. 
'Tis  nature's  way. 

Toinetta.—  And  Cordia,  Maxime, 

Is  innocent,  for  Clusa  loved  her  so, 
And  her  own  love  poured  into  Clusa's  heart 
As  green-lit  sunshine  through  the  lucent  leaves 
Of  little  trees  that  stand  beside  their  sisters. 
I  know  not  how  it  was,  they  seemed  to  share 
Light  that  was  very  vital  to  them  both. 
Would  there  had  been  enough  for  Clusa  too! 

Louise. —  But  Cordia,  though  living,  suffers  so. 
Clusa  is  dead,  but  Cordia  suffers  yet. 

Toinetta.—  'Tis  still  that  ruddy  loss  from  out  her  heart. 

Louise. —  It  seems  to  me  as  if  she  had  been  lured 
By  some  magician  having  power  o'er  men, 
An  artist  of  inscrutable  deep  ways 
And  easy  laugh  at  his  experiments, 
Into  the  laboratory  where  he  tries 
His  sorceries;  and  there  he,  speaking  runes, 
Had,  with  his  face  of  Mephistopheles, 
Touched  her  poor  heart  until  it  oozed  its  red. 
And  ever  from  some  hidden  source  there  comes 
Into  her  being  power  to  weep  itself. 
And  yet  this  wizard  or  Satanic  one 
Makes  her  his  own  by  this  unstopt  effusion. 
Her  soul  is  made  his  vassal,  which  he  holds 


HYACINTH  STOOD  ART  SMITH  187 

As  by  a  mystic  spell  that  gives  her  strength 

To  live  so  long  and  die  so  long  in  life. 

O  tender  body  that  can  never  rest, 

Though  every  breath  were  an  exceeding  torment! 

So  loving,  loving,  loving  she  must  live, 

And  living  die  of  unrelieved  love. 

This  wizard  makes  her  even  so  his  own, 

And  bending  o'er  her  keeps  on  her  the  spell 

Till  she  is  tired,  as  must  a  mortal  be, 

Tired  with  the  straining  ecstasy  of  longing. 
Toinetta. —  Her  very  cry  for  mercy  comes  from  love, 

And  love  it  is  that  fills  her  with  unrest, 

And  makes  the  wound  through  which  her  life  grows  less. 

She  walks  as  one  who  dreams  within  love's  dusk. 

The  earth  for  her  is  dim,  and  time  is  gone, 

And  her  eyes  look  on  things  we  cannot  see. 
Maxime. —  If  time  leaves  her  no  measure  for  brief  joy, 

What  an  eternity  is  in  her  woe! 
Toinetta. —  She's  coming! 
Louise  (to  MAXIME). —  To  Toinetta  she  confides 

Her  heart,  and  not  to  us. 
Maxime. —  Then  let  us  go. 

(LouiSE  and  MAXIME  go  out,  and  CORDIA  comes  from  the  house  to  the 
verandah.} 

Cordia. —  Toinetta,  I  have  wandered  by  the  sea, 

And  generous  and  mild  its  bosom  breathed 

Of  hope  and  peace  and  strength.     I  know  to-night 

There  will  be  stars  and  moon. —  If  he  would  go! 
Toinetta. —  Who  go,  and  where  ? 
Cordia. —  Into  the  garden,  oh, 

If  Argentine  would  go! 
Toinetta. —  What  garden,  then  ? 
Cordia. —  The  garden  of  love  —  it  is  so  wonderful! 

That  place  we  enter  with  our  sandals  off, 

And  there  we  are  accompanied  with  all 

That  man  holds  good.     That  garden  we  come  to 

When  we  are  fit,  for  'tis  most  beautiful 

Of  all  the  realms  of  life. 

Toinetta. —  Have  you  been  there  ? 

Cordia. —  I  cannot  go  alone;  but  I  have  brushed 


1 88  CORDIA 

The  coping  of  its  walls  and  felt  the  soft 

Green  moss  that  creeping  covers  them  with  peace. 

And  at  a  place  I  once  peered  o'er  the  walls, 

And  what  I  saw  was  like  a  miracle. 
Toinetta. —  If  you  should  tell  him  would  he  not  then  go  ? 

Ah,  Argentine  comes  —  tell  him  of  the  garden! 
Cordia. —  Kiss  me,  Toinetta.     You  seem  nearest  her, 

Clusa,  I  mean. 

(TOINETTA  kisses  CORDIA  and  moves  away.    ARGENTINE  comes  up  the 
path  from  the  sea.     CORDIA  whispers:} 

What  shall  this  hour  bring  forth  ? 

(Then  to  ARGENTINE).  — I  still  think  of  the  garden,  Argentine. 
Argentine. —  Again  the  garden !     Well,  I  listen  now, 

But  will  not  look  to  see  where  your  quick  heart 

Still  seems  to  drip  the  red  of  your  atonement 

For  Clusa's  death! 

Cordia  (putting  up  her  arms  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow). — 
Oh,  spare  me  from  those  words! 

You  plunge  me  to  the  misery  of  such  grief 

That  in  the  gloomy  dungeon  of  despair 

I  seem  to  seek  and  grope  and  cry  for  light! 

Unless  your  hand  shall  lead  me  to  the  day 

Wherein  the  garden  blows,  I  die  in  darkness. 
Argentine. —  How  could  we  gain  this  garden,  Cordia  ? 
Cordia  (looking  ahead  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  light  in  her  eyes). — 

The  glory  of  the  morn  is  in  the  east  — 

It  beckons  to  us  from  the  sky's  gold  gates! 

We'll  follow  that  blue  path  unto  the  day, 

And  clothed  with  brightness  we  shall  lift  our  heads! 

The  great  sea  streams  unto  this  garden  lead, 

Their  current  is  drawn  on  by  magnet  love, 

Their  strength  is  the  forgiveness  of  our  sins. 

Ah,  when  I  sail  that  sea  will  you  not  be 

Before  me  on  the  shore,  and  cry  to  me: 

"  I  too  can  love!     The  winds  deceived  my  sails, 

But  now  I  hear  the  voice  of  love  again, 

And  we  will  rise  and  go  into  the  garden." 

Argentine  (with  confusion}. —  And  what  have  I  to  bring  but  my  mis- 
takes 

And  my  distress  and  sorrow,  Cordia  ? 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  189 

Cordia. —  Oh,  there  the  wind  dispels  the  yesterdays! 

It  blows  with  present  courage  and  stores  power 

To  sweep  away  all  burden  of  the  past. 

And  in  this  freedom,  oh,  our  lives  will  know 

A  new  and  final  grace,  a  flawless  joy. 
Argentine. —  How  difficult  the  way  unto  this  garden! 
Cordia. —  Is  it  so  hard  ?     If  so,  'tis  worth  a  price!  — 

This  garden  has  a  fountain,  Argentine, 

Which  springs  forth  from  the  heaviness  of  earth  — 

It  gushes  from  the  depths  of  her  —  and  yet 

How  free  it  leaps  and  rises  to  the  sky, 

And  gathers  stars  to  gem  its  flying  spray; 

How  white  it  is,  how  delicate,  and  then 

How  by  its  side  it  holds  the  rainbow's  hues! 

Still  does  the  earthly  clay-gap  send  it  forth 

Into  the  sunshine  or  the  odorous  night, 

And  purple  flowers  and  herbs  of  spicy  breath 

Welcome  the  wonder  of  its  loveliness! 

But  to  behold  this  fount  and  drink  of  it 

One  must  have  love  that  like  a  mighty  tree 

Waves  far  aloft  its  plumes,  and  therefore  needs 

Must  have  a  root  of  depth  unshakable. 
Argentine. —  Some  sanction  of  all  life  must  enter  there 

And  we  must  wait  until  divinely  free, 

Unheld  of  law  or  conscience,  we  can  go. 

For  in  a  love  so  holy  all  our  being 

Must  find  acceptance,  be  acceptable. 
Cordia. —  But  is  not  this  the  hour,  if  you  do  love  me  ? 

This  garden  is,  where  the  elect  go  in, 

Fulfilment  of  all  life,  and  heaven's  image. 

What  now  of  best  that  lies  without,  within, 

Forbids  we  have  love's  high  experience  ? 

Shall  we  not  go  where  springs  the  eternal  fount  ? 
Argentine. —  O  Cordia!     In  this  home  my  roots  are  planted, 

In  that  Idea  which  through  all  my  days 

Shall  be  my  soul.     And  as  a  spirit  haunts 

The  walls  of  a  familiar  habitation, 

Myself  must  haunt  this  spot  that  I  hold  dearest, 

This  seat  of  love,  this  definite  red  house, 

This  center  of  the  world,  this  parent  source 


190  CORDIA 

Of  life  itself,  the  root  of  the  world  plant. 

We  know  not  what  the  essence  is  of  life, 

But  know  well  that  its  issue  is  of  love, 

Of  love,  that  as  the  sun  unto  the  earth, 

Is  vital  warmth  to  every  good  that  is  — 

To  duty  and  to  sacrifice,  to  law, 

To  service  and  to  kindness  and  to  strength. 

Having  our  homes  we  all  may  come  and  go 

As  hurried  with  the  variousness  of  will, 

Now  to,  now  from,  this  hearthstone  of  our  lives, 

But  ever  love  sits  here  with  her  calm  law, 

Old  and  supreme,  serene  and  sure  as  fate, 

Ordering  from  these  rooms,  where  she  abides 

With  large  and  lustrous  eyes,  our  wandering  souls, 

That  we  breathe  still  the  air  of  a  sweet  life. 

And  I  have  seen  love's  folded  great  wings  here, 

Her  heavenly  pinions  settling  in  this  house, 

Strong  as  with  light  and  peace  immutable, 

Quivering  with  life  and  mobile  as  the  sea, 

And  here  she  sat,  a  presence  to  be  worshipped. 

Cordia. —  One  time  before,  I  heard  you  talk  like  this. 

Now  o'er  me  breaks  the  sound  of  your  loved  voice 
As  from  a  wide-winged  cloud  the  sweet  shower  falls. 
I  seem  rained  on  by  words  that  have  rich  pictures, 
As  though  in  every  rounded  drop  that  fell 
I  could  behold  the  motion  of  fair  forms, 
Visions  of  gleaming  sails  and  far  white  birds! 

Argentine. —  And  looking  down,  behold  I  see  my  shrine. 
Your  hair  is  spread  about  you  as  the  fringe 
The  cypress  waves  from  its  outreaching  branches, 
And  you  are  slim  and  drooping  like  the  tree. 

Cordia. —  And  shedding  drops  of  red  blood  as  the  tree, 
This  cypress  did,  in  Italy  long  ago! 
Once  when  I,  wandering  and  lost,  stood  still 
I  thought  I  was  a  tree  in  woods  at  night, 
And  now  again  I  see  the  dark  of  woods, 
The  loneliness  of  some  enchanted  hour. 

Argentine. —  'Tis  but  the  loneliness  of  sleep,  dear  heart. 

Cordia. —  Do  you  not  see  how  all  my  boughs  are  shaken 
And  how  the  red  is  crimsoning  my  side  ? 

Argentine. —  I  see  an  aureole  round  you,  Cordia, 


HYACINTH  STODDART  SMITH  191 

For  in  you,  like  a  light  in  cloud,  is  love, 

And  its  beams  cast  a  halo  from  your  spirit! 

(She  shivers.  ARGENTINE  settles  her  deep  in  the  cushions.  He  leans 
over  her  and  takes  her  hand.} 

Argentine. —  Do  you  remember,  Cordia,  that  tree 

I  told  you  of,  close  by  the  tomb  of  Cyrus  ? 
Cordia. —  That  bleeding  cypress  tree  in  Italy  ? 
Argentine. —  Yes,  Cordia.     For  often  I  think  how  you 

Are  like  this  tree  the  traveler  tells  us  of: 

How  it  was  made  a  shrine  and  pilgrims  came 

And  said  the  bleeding  was  a  miracle. 

Long  have  you  been  a  shrine,  dear  Cordia, 

Where  I've  hung  little  lamps  of  my  devotion. 

I  am  the  pilgrim,  and  you  seem  most  holy, 

And  all  your  pain  of  heart  a  miracle 

Of  matchless  love! 

Cordia  (scarcely  heard}. —  This  now,  when  I  must  die! 
Argentine  (entreating! y). —  I  come  to  you,  believing  and  devout, 

To  you,  my  shrine. 

Cordia. —  Your  crimsoned  cypress  tree! 

Argentine. —  Under  the  shelter  of  its  boughs  to  rest 

And  consecrate  it  as  my  oratory. 

And  to  this  home  of  love  I  must  devote 

All  that  is  left  me  of  my  lapsing  life. 

For  I,  who  came  so  near  offending  home, 

Feel  how  I  owe  unto  its  very  dwelling 

Life's  poor  reminder  —  all  my  loving  care, 

My  constant  tendance  and  my  reverence. 

Here  shall  I  dwell,  as  one  held  in  a  sea 

He  could  not  ride,  counting  its  million  gems 

And  glorying  in  its  depths  that  sink  so  far 

Beneath  the  day  in  all  their  power  and  strangeness. 

So  here  as  with  a  spirit  I  shall  stay. 

And  live  a  little  without  joy  and  die. 
Cordia. —  Oh,  then  for  us  to  go  together  there 

Into  our  garden  —  it  is  not  the  hour! 

Dear  Argentine,  my  heart  bleeds.     O  my  heart! 

(CoRDlA  suddenly  gathers  her  goivn  over  her  heart  and  is  about  to  fally 
'when  ARGENTINE  reaches  out  his  arms  to  hold  her.  She  droops  white  and 
still.  He  sees  the  spot  of  red  upon  her  breast.  He  leads  her  tenderly  to  a 


192  CORDIA 

cushioned  seat,  and  bends  above  her.     CORDIA  sighs  out  these  words  and  leans 
her  face  up  nearer  his.} 

Now  it  will  bleed  my  life  away  at  last. 
Oh,  I  am  cold  —  how  chill  the  evening  grows. 

(CoRDlA,  rising  a  little,  looks  deeply  into  ARGENTINE'S  eyes,  then  slowly 
her  head  sinks  upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  hand  clutches  at  her  heart.} 
Cordia. —  I  see  a  garden  more  remote  than  love's, 
And  for  our  own  the  hour  can  never  come! 
(She  dies.} 


THE  CODICIL 

(A  comedy  in  one  act) 

BY  PAUL  FERRIER 

Translated  by  Elizabeth  Lester  Mullin 

CHARACTERS 

MARIE  DE  CHANTENAY,  a  widow. 
GASTON  DE  MORIERES,  her  lover. 
PITOU,  a  gardener. 
PONTGOUIN,  a  notary. 

SCENE:  Chateau  de  Chantenay,  Poitou,  France.     TIME:  The  piesent. 

SCENE  I 
A  drawing-room.     Enter  PONTGOUIN  and  MARIE  DE  CHANTENAY. 

Marie. —  Why  do  I  remain  a  widow  ?  Because  men  are  so  conceited, 
so  absolutely  selfish  that  marriage  has  become  nothing  more  than  a  specu- 
lation. Beauty,  wit,  and  heart  count  as  nothing  in  their  estimation  and 
cannot  balance  the  weight  of  a  dowery.  There  is  not  one  among  them,  not 
a  single  one,  I  say,  who  has  love,  generosity,  or  chivalry  enough  to  encumber 
himself  with  a  wife  without  a  fortune. 

Pontgouin. —  A  Malabar  widow  —  through  misanthropy. 

Mane. —  Malabar  —  minus  the  funeral  pile. 

Pontgouin.—  You  are  a  dreadful  sceptic. 

Marie. —  Whose  fault  is  it  ?  The  fitful  changes  of  life  have  in  a  few 
years  allowed  me  to  go  through  a  double  experience.  As  a  young  girl  in 
sad  need  of  a  dowery  I  ran  the  risk  of  becoming  an  old  maid.  But  as  a 
widow,  endowed  with  the  fortune  M.  de  Chantenay  has  left  me,  that  is 
quite  another  thing.  I  personally  have  worked  out  the  rule  and  now  see  it 
verified.  What  a  contrast!  This  time  the  suitors  fairly  spring  out  of  the 
ground  and  I  cannot  take  a  step  without  stumbling  over  a  proposal. 

Pontgouin. —  Who  assures  you  that  they  are  all  so  interested  ? 

Marie. —  Who  assures  me  ?  A  test,  whimsical,  perhaps,  but  conclusive, 
by  which  I  regularly  try  each  of  my  lovers ! 

193 


i94  THE  CODICIL 

Pontgouin. —  And  that  test  ? 

Marie. —  You  are  not  in  the  ranks,  my  friend,  so  I  can  tell  you.  M. 
de  Chantenay  by  his  will  bequeathed  me  his  fortune  absolutely,  but  I  have 
imagined  a  codicil  that  will  deprive  me  of  it.  You  understand  —  this  is  the 
game!  He  proposes.  Usual  formula.  I  reply  in  an  incredulous  tone. — 
"  Yes,  you  may  swear  that  you  love  me,  yet  how  am  I  to  know  that  you  love 
none  but  me  ?"  (He),  "  I  love  any  but  you!  What  woman  could  contend 
against  such  charms,  such  grace,  such  fascination  ?  "  -  Then  I  become 
more  explicit.  "  If  I  could  feel  sure  that  you  love  me  for  myself  alone  " 
(He),  "  I  not  love  you  for  yourself,  Madame,  I  who  adore  your  every  feature. 
Your  beauty,  your  hair,  your  brow,  your  soul  that  reflects  -  I  sigh. 

"  Then  I  need  no  longer  fear  to  make  you  a  revelation  that  might  cool  a  less 
ardent  devotion."-  -  (He),  "  You  have  a  revelation  to  make  me  ?  "  -  Here 
the  voice  of  the  lover  trembles,  though  love  plays  small  part  in  that  tremor. 
I  hasten  to  explain  -  "  Oh,  reassure  yourself,  that  revelation  has  nothing 
to  do  with  my  honor,  nor  with  anything  you  love  in  me.  It  only  refers  to 
some  miserable  financial  details."  The  countenance  of  the  adorer  darkens. 
I  continue  —  "  By  his  will  M.  de  Chantenay  left  me  his  fortune  uncondi- 
tionally."- -  Unconditionally,  at  that  word  the  lover's  brow  regains  its 
serenity  -  '*  But  there  is  a  codicil  attached,  a  codicil  which  reads  " — 
Clouds  gather  once  more  -  "  In  case  Madame  de  Chantenay  should  con- 
tract a  second  marriage  my  will  becomes  null  and  void  and  my  property  in 
its  entirety  shall  revert  to  my  nephew,  my  sole  natural  heir."-  -  Then  the 
face  of  my  wooer  expresses  stupor  in  its  most  aggravated  form  —  "  But  you 
love  me  for  myself,  my  hair,  my  brow,  my  every  feature."  Oh,  how  ridic- 
ulous they  appear  protesting,  stammering,  and  finally  beating  a  retreat. 
And  they  never  come  back  again.  Never!  Wretched  men!  It  is  such  a 
farce.  But  you  are  not  laughing  —  ? 

Pontgouin. —  I  am  thinking  of  a  case  that  might  present  itself. 

Marie. —  Let's  have  it. 

Pontgouin. —  If  you  chanced  to  meet  a  man,  a  paladin,  who  would  come 
out  of  the  test  triumphant  - 

Marie. —  He  will  never  be  met. 

Pontgouin.  —  Still  admit  the  hypothesis. 

Marie. —  He  would  not  be  of  this  century  and  that  very  circumstance 
might  lessen  the  desirability  of  the  match. 

Pontgouin. —  Not  necessarily. 

Marie. —  He  would  have  to  be  an  Arcadian  Shepherd. 

Pontgouin. —  But  you  would  marry  him  ? 

Marie. —  You  lay  great  stress  upon  my  marrying. 


PAUL  FERRIER  195 

Pontgouin. —  I  am  greatly  in  favor  of  it. 

Marie. —  What  did  I  ever  do  to  you  ? 

Enter  Pitou. —  Madame  de  Chantenay,  the  Sub-Prefect  asks  for  you. 

Pontgouin. —  One  of  your  admirers  ? 

Marie. —  Yes,  for  a  week  he  has  been  beating  about  the  bush.  Will  you 
bet  on  him  ? 

Pontgouin. —  Oh,  no. 

Marie. —  You  are  prudent.  However,  you  need  not  go  far.  He  will 
not  be  long. 

Pontgouin. —  A  farce  ? 

Marie. —  Always  the  same  with  the  invariable  conclusion. 

(Exit.) 

SCENE  II 
PONTGOUIN,  PITOU 

Pontgouin. —  I  would  not  bet  on  the  Sub-Prefect,  but  I  would  bet  on 
Gaston  de  Morieres  (he  hesitates),  I  will  bet — hey! — hey!  Should  I  bet? 
Gaston  is  a  noble  fellow  and  generous  too,  yet  to  see  an  income  of  thirty 
thousand  francs  suddenly  vanish  under  your  very  eyes  is  enough  to  knock 
the  breath  out  of  you.  You  are  taken  unawares  and  feel  the  full  strength  of 
the  blow.  (He  is  struck  with  an  idea.)  I  will  bet  on  a  certainty.  A  word 
to  the  wise  is  sufficient.  I  will  warn  Gaston.  (He  writes)  Courage,  my  friend, 
go  ahead  and  propose.  That  story  of  the  codicil  is  all  an  invention.  Don't 
you  believe  it.  There  is  no  codicil.  Only  feign  to  believe  it  and  victory  is 
yours. 

Pitou  (advances). —  M.  Pontgouin,  since  you  are  here  you  had  better 
take  a  look  at  the  espaliers. 

Pontgouin. —  Why  should  I,  Pitou  ?     I  am  not  a  gardener. 

Pitou. —  Quite  true,  sir,  but  you  are  a  lawyer,  and  can  tell  if  a  neighbor 
has  any  right  to  let  his  wall  tumble  down  on  Madame  de  Chantenay's  fruit. 

Pontgouin. —  Always  something  the  matter  with  your  neighbors'  wall. 

Pitou. —  M.  Pontgouin,  you  know  M.  de  Morieres  and  could  persuade 
him  to  have  his  wall  repaired.  If  Madame  de  Chantenay  would  only  listen 
to  me  she  would  sue  him. 

Pontgouin. —  I  would  not  think  of  doing  that,  Pitou,  until  I  had  tried 
conciliatory  measures  first. 

Pitou. —  You  hope  to  conciliate  ? 


196  THE  CODICIL 

Pontgouin. —  It  was  with  just  such  a  hope  that  I  had  written  to  M.  de 
Morieres.  Will  you  take  the  letter  to  him  ? 

Pitou  (taking  the  letter). —  Did  you  put  in  it  that  only  last  night  two  rocks 
fell  down  and  crushed  seventeen  fine  Duchess  pears  ? 

Pontgouin. —  Yes,  I  told  him  what  he  had  to  expect. 

Pitou. —  A  marmalade  of  seventeen  pears!  Pshaw!  If  he  knows 
what's  right  he'll  have  his  old  wall  fixed  up. 

(Exit.) 

SCENE  III 

Pontgouin. —  I  have  an  idea  that  he  will  arrange  to  have  it  pulled  down 
so  as  to  unite  the  two  estates.  Then  this  will  be  the  finest  tract  of  land  in 
Poitou.  Ah!  Well,  since  he  is  in  love  with  Madame  de  Chantenay  he  can 
act  the  Arcadian  Shepherd  and  maybe  she  will  marry  him.  Here  she 
comes.  She  is  laughing.  The  government  official  has  evidently  been  ousted. 

Marie  (enters  laughing). —  E  finita  la  commedia! 

Pontgouin. —  The  Sub-Prefect  ? 

Marie. —  He  has  flown  as  fast  as  he  could.  You  will  see  that  he  asks 
to  be  transferred. 

Pontgouin  (seeing  PITOU  enter). —  Pitou,  already?  (He  makes  a  sign, 
says  in  an  undertone)^  Sh,  —  You  have  not  delivered  my  letter  ? 

Pitou. —  On  the  contrary,  I  put  it  into  M.  de  Morieres  own  hand.  I 
met  him  coming  here. 

Pontgouin  (aside). —  Good  for  me!  I  was  just  in  time.  We  will  clear 
the  field.  Come  along,  Pitou.  (Perceiving  that  MARIE  is  watching  them.) 
Yes,  Madame,  we  are  thinking  of  bringing  action  against  your  neighbor. 
Show  me  the  way,  Pitou,  and  let  us  have  a  look  into  these  damages. 

(Exeunt.) 

SCENE  IV 

Marie. —  A  suit  against  M.  de  Morieres  ?  Oh,  Pitou  is  such  a  savage! 
M.  de  Morieres,  the  only  one  of  my  neighbors  who  has  never  courted  me. 
Never.  Is  it  indifference  or  timidity  ?  It  would  be  ridiculous  for  him  to  do 
it  now  after  so  many  others.  After  the  Sub-Prefect,  for  instance.  (She 
laughs.) 

GASTON  enters 

Gaston. —  You  are  in  a  gay  mood  to-day. 
Marie. —  M.  de  Morieres!     I  am  glad  to  see  you. 


PAUL  FERRIER  197 

Gaston. —  Are  you  not  going  to  laugh  any  more  ? 

Marie. —  No,  it  is  all  over. 

Gaston^ —  So  much  the  worse.  Your  laugh  is  clear  and  sweet  as  any 
chime.  I  love  to  hear  you  laugh. 

Marie. —  Then  it  is  a  question  of  sound  ? 

Gaston. —  Have  you  begun  to  tease  already  ? 

Marie. —  No,  but  you  spoke  as  a  lover  of  music. 

Gaston. —  That  is  because  I  dare  not  tell  you  that  I  am  a  lover  of  an- 
other kind. 

Marie. —  Now,  my  friend,  no  nonsense. 

Gaston. —  I  know  you  do  not  like  it.  Yet,  you  ought  to  be  particularly 
indulgent  to  a  —  neighbor  who  has  come  to  say  farewell. 

Marie. —  Farewell  ?     Are  you  going  away  ? 

Gaston. —  This  evening. 

Marie. —  That  means  you  are  off  on  a  hunt  ? 

Gaston. —  Yes,  to  the  jungles  of  India,  after  the  tiger. 

Marie. —  You  are  not  serious  ? 

Gaston. —  About  the  tiger  ?  Certainly.  Also  of  my  plans.  I  have 
often  spoken  to  you  of  Roger  de  Montluel. 

Marie. —  Your  friend  who  has  been  three  times  around  the  world  ? 

Gaston. —  Yes,  and  this  time  he  has  taken  it  into  his  head  to  have  me 
go  with  him. 

Marie. —  Ah!     If  that  is  the  case,  it  is  time  I  should  stop  laughing. 

Gaston. —  Really  ? 

Mane. —  Am  I  not  going  to  lose  a  friend  ? 

Gaston. —  Yes,  a  —  friend. 

Marie. —  You  don't  seem  to  be  any  too  sure. 

Gaston. —  Of  course  I  am. 

Marie. —  Are  you,  indeed !  Let  me  see.  You  are  my  country  neighbor. 
In  the  country  it  is  quite  the  proper  thing  for  neighbors  to  go  to  law.  The 
occasion  is  not  lacking,  M.  de  Morieres. 

Gaston. —  It  is  a  clear  fact  that  that  beastly  drain  of  yours 

Marie. —  I  advise  you  to  complain,  you  whose  boundary  walls  are  daily 
tumbling  down  upon  my  espaliers. 

Gaston. —  I  shall  leave  orders  to  have  them  repaired.  You  say  it  is  the 
proper  thing  for  neighbors  to  go  to  law  ? 

Marie. —  That  does  not  apply  to  a  case  like  ours  where  difficulties 
can  be  solved  by  friendship. 

Gaston. —  Nothing  else  ? 

Marie. —  Nothing  else. 


198  THE  CODICIL 

Gaston. —  You  see  no  other  alternative  ? 

Marie. —  Say  rather  that  I  wish  to  see  none. 

Gaston. —  Very  well!  But  as  far  as  I  can  see  these  neighborly  relations 
need  not  exclude  an  attachment  of  a  deeper  and  more  intimate  nature  than 
mere  friendship. 

Marie. —  Again  ?  M.  de  Morieres,  I  have  never  known  you  as  dis- 
agreeable as  you  are  to-day. 

Gaston. —  I  have  not  had  the  chance  so  far,  but  I  had  promised  myself 
to  be  more  than  agreeable. 

Marie. —  So  as  to  add  keenness  to  my  regrets  at  parting  ?  You  were 
unkind  to  make  such  a  resolution. 

Gaston. —  I  was  about  to  observe 

Marie. —  You  were  about  to  observe  —  Come,  come,  M.  de  Morieres, 
we  have  had  enough  of  nonsense,  let  us  speak  plainly.  Ever  since  my 
arrival  at  Chantenay,  a  year  ago 

Gaston. —  A  year  already! 

Marie. —  Oh,  spare  me  such  exclamations.  For  a  year,  then,  we  have 
kept  up  these  neighborly  relations  under  the  semblance  of  friendship. 

Gaston. —  The  resemblance  is  indeed  striking.  My  chateau  is  within 
two  gunshots  of  yours  and  your  grounds  run  into  mine.  I  am  very  thankful 
for  this  proximity  and  am  indebted  to  it  for  the  water  that  your  drain  con- 
tinually backs  into  my  cellars. 

Marie. —  And  I  to  your  crumbling  walls  for  the  stones  that  crush  my 
finestfruits.  But  our  object  is  not  to  discuss  the  annoyances  arising  from 
bordering  estates.  Allow  me  to  continue. 

Gaston. —  I  am  all  attention. 

Marie. —  In  consequence  of  some  interchange  of  seeds,  principally  for 
the  kitchen  garden 

Gaston. —  Those  white  melon  seeds !  I  will  never  forget  them  as  long 
as  I  live. 

Marie. —  In  consequence  of  the  interchange  of  some  melon  seeds 

Gaston. —  White.     They  were  white  melon  seeds. 

Marie. —  Well,  then,  white  melon  seeds,  you  paid  me  a  visit. 

Gaston. —  Ha,  ha!  I  can  still  see  myself,  how  I  brought  you,  first,  buds 
from  my  rose  bushes,  then  roses  from  my  buds  —  so  you  might  judge  for 
yourself. 

Marie. —  And  I  accepted  those  roses  and  buds  and  later  a  basket  of 
game. 

Gaston. —  A  hare,  three  pheasants,  and  seven  quails. 

Marie. —  I  remember  it. 


PAUL  FERRIER  199 

Gaston. —  I  shall  remember  it  eternally. 

Marie. —  Then  followed  other  seeds,  other  roses,  other  baskets  of  game, 
and  a  number  of  calls. 

Gaston. —  A  hundred  and  eleven. 

Marie. —  A  hundred  and  eleven ! 

Gaston. —  I  kept  count  of  them.  It  seems  quite  a  number  in  a  year. 
Yet  between  neighbors  in  the  country 

Marie. —  In  short,  by  degrees  we  became  inseparable.  I  found  you 
frank  and  a  genial  comrade.  Certainly  nothing  in  your  manner  or  con- 
versation warranted  me  in  doubting  the  sincerity  of  a  friendship  which  I 
naturally  returned. 

Gaston. —  Oh,  I  see  what  you  are  driving  at  now. 

Marie. —  Ah,  indeed ! 

Gaston. —  Yes.  Would  you  like  me  to  finish  it  for  you  ?  '  You  came  as 
a  friend,  you  were  received  as  a  friend.  If  you  change  your  role " 

Marie. —  In  that  case,  my  friend  —  But  why  discuss  it  when  you  are 
leaving  for  the  Indies  ? 

Gaston. —  Yes,  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  the  Indies,  although 
the  Indies  are  scarcely  far  enough  to  suit  me.  To  remain  here  and  continue 
this  role  of  friendship  would  be  utterly  impossible.  For  three  months  I  have 
struggled  to  throw  off  the  mask,  but  refrained  through  fear  of  displeasing 
you.  The  emotion  of  parting  has  at  least  given  me  courage  to  speak. 

Marie. —  Stop,  M.  de  Morieres.  Not  another  word.  You  are  going 
too  far. 

Gaston. —  Is  it  going  too  far  to  say  that  I  love  you  ? 

Marie. —  And  he  too ! 

Gaston. —  Yes,  I  love  you,  and  whatever  comes  of  it  I  congratulate 
myself  for  having  dared  to  tell  you  so.  Now  you  may  dismiss  me,  prohibit 
my  coming,  withdraw  your  friendship,  etc.,  etc.  I  will  barely  add  that  I  am 
thirty,  in  sound  health,  and  can  offer  you  a  spotless  name  and  an  ample 
fortune.  There  is  nothing  in  my  proposal  to  offend,  even  if,  alas,  there  is 
nothing  to  flatter  you.  Only  allow  me  to  call  you  Madame  de  Morieres 
and  I  promise  you  on  my  honor  never  to  cause  a  shadow  of  sadness  to  darken 
those  bright  features  that  I  so  dearly  love. 

Marie  (aside}. — Behold!     Still  another  plunges  in. 

Gaston. —  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ? 

Mane. —  I  do  not  doubt  your  sincerity  >  M.  de  Morieres,  and  I  will  tell 
you  candidly  that  your  proposal  surprises  but  in  no  sense  offends  me.  I 
am  a  widow,  my  own  mistress,  therefore  you  come  directly  to  me  to  ask  for 
my  hand.  I  would  not  be  a  woman  if  I  took  offense  at  a  sincere  love  sin- 
cerely expressed. 


200  THE  CODICIL 

Gaston. —  You  were  not  shocked  at  my  abruptness  ? 

Marie. —  Not  at  all.  It  is  your  nature  and  I  do  not  dislike  men  of  your 
nature.  However,  to  be  absolutely  true,  I  must  confess  there  is  a  tinge  of 
resentment  to  my  surprise.  You  see,  I  was  accustomed  to  view  you  solely 
as  a  friend,  now  your  proposal  changes  the  aspect  of  things  and  I  find  myself 
somewhat  confused.  You  had  never  courted  me  and  consequently  I  never 
questioned  myself  about  you.  Things  have  taken  a  grave  turn,  M.  de 
Morieres,  and  I  must  ask  a  few  days  for  consideration. 

Gaston. —  Do  not  refuse  immediately.  I  will  withdraw,  already  feeling 
less  despondent  than  when  I  came. 

Marie. —  One  moment!  I  believe  in  your  sincerity.  I  am  sure  that 
you  love  me  and  that  you  love  none  but  me. 

Gaston. —  You,  you  alone.     Your  beauty,  your  grace,  your  distinction. 

Marie  (aside}. —  Naturally!  (Aloud.}  Then,  I  fear  no  longer  to  make 
you  a  revelation  that  might  cool  a  less  passionate  devotion. 

Gaston. —  You  have  a  revelation  to  make  me  ? 

Marie  (aside}. —  His  voice  trembles. 

Gaston  (aside). —  Could  JV1.  de  Chantenay  have  imposed  any  conditions  ? 

Marie. —  Reassure  yourself.  The  revelation  has  nothing  to  do  with 
my  honor  nor  with  my  dignity  nor  with  anything  you  love  in  me. 

Gaston. —  I  could  have  vouched  for  that. 

Marie. —  It  only  refers  to  some  miserable  financial  details.  (Aside.} 
His  brow  does  not  even  darken. 

Gaston. —  Miserable,  indeed!  But  we  will  not  bother  about  them. 
That's  a  lawyer's  business,  as  the  saying  is. 

Marie  (aside}. —  Such  disinterestedness! 

Gaston. —  You  certainly  cannot  do  me  the  injustice  to  think  that  your 
fortune  could  influence  my  suit  ? 

Marie  (aside}. —  He  affects  the  brave. 

Gaston. —  On  my  honor,  if  you  had  no  lands,  nor  stocks,  nor  even  a 
jewel,  it  would  make  no  difference,  I  should  love  you  all  the  better. 

Marie. —  Surely  you  would  not  wish  me  to  be  - 

Gaston. —  Penniless.  Rudely  speaking,  then,  I  might  have  some 
chance. 

Marie. —  Well,  my  friend,  you  have  your  wish. 

Gaston. —  Indeed! 

Marie  (aside}. —  He  didn't  even  wince! 

Gaston. —  And  your  fortune  ? 

Mane. —  I  possess  wholly  through  M.  de  Chantenay. 

Gaston. —  The  family,  I  suppose,  intend  to  contest  the  will  ? 


PAUL  FERRIER  201 

Marie. —  Not  at  all.     It  is  incontestable. 

Gaston. —  Well,  what  then  ? 

Marie. —  There  is  a  codicil. 

Gaston. —  Oh,  I  can  guess  the  contents  of  the  codicil.  In  case  of  second 
marriage  -  -  ? 

Marie. —  M.  de  Chantenay  wished  to  leave  that  opening  for  the  benefit 
of  his  collateral  heirs. 

Gaston. —  What  will  you  lose  by  marrying  again  ? 

Mane. —  An  income  of  thirty  thousand  francs. 

Gaston. —  I  have  fifty.  I  do  not  intend  to  boast  of  the  difference,  yet 
inasmuch  as  it  does  away  with  all  fear  of  impoverishing  you  I  feel  warranted 
in  pleading  that  you  consent  to  an  exchange  which,  unless  objectionable 
to  you,  would  assure  my  happiness. 

Marie. —  You  persist  ? 

Gaston. —  I  persist  without  any  misgivings  of  the  future.  In  the  first 
place,  you  will  have  to  make  the  same  sacrifice  for  whomsoever  you  choose. 
Proud  indeed  should  I  be  if  you  would  make  me  the  man,  and  I  think  I  may 
pretend  to  be  as  worthy  as  a  good  many  others. 

Marie. —  You,  my  friend,  you  are  the  best  of  men,  the  most  generous. 

Gaston. —  That  will  do,  that  will  do.  Don't  offer  me  sugar-coated  pills. 
Only  take  to  heart  this  one  truth,  that  I  love  you.  Think  it  over.  Marry 
me.  Leave  Chantenay  for  Morieres.  You  have  but  a  step  to  take,  but  a 
little  stream  to  cross.  A  propos  of  that  stream,  we  will  greet  the  new  incum- 
bents of  Chantenay  with  a  lawsuit  as  soon  as  they  take  possession.  Be 
compassionate,  Madame,  reflect  upon  my  proposal  and  decide  as  soon  as 
possible.  Then  dispatch  me  word  to  Morieres,  where  I  now  go  in  a  fever 
of  anxiety  to  await  your  answer. 

Mane.  —  Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  ? 

Gaston. —  Why  ?  Because  the  sooner  you  begin  to  reflect  the  sooner 
you  will  come  to  some  decision. 

Marie. —  I  can  think  just  as  well  in  your  presence.  Unless  you  are 
afraid  it  might  augment  your  fever,  I  would  offer  you  some  dinner. 

Gaston. —  I  will  be  poor  company,  but  most  happy  to  accept. 

Marie.—  I  will  give  the  necessary  orders.  You  need  not  worry.  There 
will  be  no  extra  preparations,  for  it  is  known  that  lovers  live  on  little. 

Gaston. —  Do  not  mock  me.  It  is  true  that  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart 
and  only  ask  the  chance  to  prove  it. 

(MARIE  gives  him  her  hand  as  she  leaves  the  stage.  He  gladly  seizes  it 
and  detains  her.  They  exchange  glances.} 

Marie  (aside}. —  Ah!  Indeed,  I  should  have  been  truly  grieved  if  he 
had  not  proved  better  than  the  others.  (Exit.) 


202  THE  CODICIL 

SCENE  V 

Gaston  (sighs). —  Heavens!  how  I  sigh.  Yet,  there  is  no  sin  in  sighing. 
I  sigh  because  I  am  in  love  and  I  love  like  a  — no  —  I  do  not  want  to  say, 
like  a  fool,  on  her  account.  I  love,  let  me  see,  I  love  like  a  man  of  thirty 
who  knows  the  charms  and  deceptions  of  life,  and  who  says  to  himself  when 
he  meets  the  woman  in  the  world  who  realizes  his  fondest  dreams, '  Now,  then, 
now,  then,  if  I  should  not  displease  Madame  de  Chantenay,  Madame  de 
Chantenay  would  suit  me  marvelously.'  No  romantic  introduction,  no 
sudden  emotion,  no  electric  thrills.  Talk  to  me  rather  of  love  that  is  founded 
on  congenial  tastes  and  fortune.  Such  a  love  is  warranted  not  to  fade  with 
time.  It  does  not  blaze  up  as  ignited  straw  only  to  end  in  a  handful  of 
ashes.  It  has  its  gradations,  first  Madame  de  Chantenay  pleased  me,  then 
she  charmed  me,  and  finally  bewitched  me  —  yes,  bewitched  me.  And  to 
think  that  for  three  months  I  concealed  my  love  under  the  guise  of  friend- 
ship. Ah,  I  was  right  to  screw  my  up  courage!  A  courage  that  took  me  by 
surprise.  Upon  my  honor  I  came  here  intending  to  do  nothing  more  than 
say  good  by.  I  was  half  off  to  India  and  maybe  farther  for  all  I  know. 
Now,  I  think  of  it,  what  did  I  do  with  Pontgouin's  letter  ?  We  have  a  com- 
mon notary.  He  will  draw  up  the  contract.  (Finding  a  letter^)  No,  that 
is  Roger's.  By  the  way,  Roger  is  expecting  me  and  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
him.  (He  looks  at  his  watch.)  Five  o'clock,  I  have  barely  time  to  run 
home  and  send  a  telegram  to  let  my  traveling  companion  know  that  I  have 
given  up  the  trip  —  detained  by  a  —  hope. 

(Exit.) 

SCENE  VI 
MARIE,  PONTGOUIN 

Marie. —  No,  no,  M.  Pontgouin,  that  will  do,  I  beg  of  you. 

Pontgouin. —  But   Madame   de   Chantenay 

Marie. —  It  is  useless.  I  do  not  blame  you.  You  thought  that  friend- 
ship would  justify  such  perfidy.  That  excuses  you  in  some  degree,  but  as 
for  M.  de  Morieres,  do  not  try  to  defend  him. 

Pontgouin. —  You  make  it  seem  worse  than  it  actually  is. 

Mane. —  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  held  him  in  such  esteem  that  his  fall 
seems  all  the  greater.  I  was  foolishly  taken  in  by  his  protests  of  chivalry. 
I  am  angry  with  him  for  two  reasons,  for  having  assumed  the  role  of  Don 
Quixote  and  for  having  played  it  so  cheaply. 


PAUL  FERRIER  203 

Pontgouin. —  You  make  me  bitterly  regret 

Marie. —  Regret  what  ?  Having  doubted  his  disinterestedness  so  far 
as  to  put  him  on  his  guard,  or  for  having  confessed  to  me  your  treason  ? 
The  latter  absolves  you  from  the  former. 

Pontgouin. —  But  the  latter  was  involuntary.  You  forced  my  admission 
so  dexterously  - 

Marie. —  Merely  by  chance.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Pitou's  indiscretion, 
who,  in  his  innocence,  informed  me  that  he  had  just  delivered  a  letter  from 
you  to  M.  de  Morieres. 

Pontgouin. —  Pitou  is  an  idiot!  But  didn't  you  allege  what  was  false 
in  order  to  get  the  truth  out  of  me  ? 

Marie. —  That  was  fair  play. 

Pontgouin. —  Yes,  in  a  criminal  prosecution  against  a  felon,  but  against 
an  inoffensive  notary.  "  That  was  a  clever  ruse  of  yours,"  you  said,  "  to 
have  warned  your  friend.  He  has  loyally  confessed  the  whole  affair  and 
shown  me  your  letter,"  and  you  were  laughing  as  you  said  it,  so  that  I  fell 
into  your  trap.  Awkward  fool!  When  I  had  made  my  confession,  you 
stopped  laughing,  and  then  I  realized  that  through  my  stupidity  I  had 
ruined  poor  de  Morieres. 

Marie. —  Console  yourself,  you  have  saved  me. 

Pontgouin. —  Saved  ? 

Marie. —  Yes,  from  the  greatest  misery.  From  the  misfortune  of  having 
to  regard  with  contempt  the  man  I  should  have  married.  Here  he  comes. 
Will  you  leave  us,  M.  Pontgouin  ? 

Pontgouin. —  What,  you  are  going  to  make  him  undergo 

Marie. —  A  cross-examination. 

Pontgouin. —  And  if  he  should  deny  ? 

Marie. —  Do  you  think  he  will  deny  to  the  end  ? 

Pontgouin. —  No.  But  I  think  there  is  a  gap  in  our  Judicial  System. 
Women  ought  to  be  made  prosecuting  attorneys. 

(Exit.) 

SCENE  VII 
MARIE,  GASTON 

Marie. —  Well,  Neighbor,  are  you  still  here  ? 

Gaston. —  Still  ? 

Mane. —  I  thought  you  had  gone. 

Gaston. —  I  went  home  for  a  minute  to  send  a  dispatch  to  Montluel. 


204  THE  CODICIL 

Marie. —  Your  traveling  companion  ? 

Gaston. —  My  ex-companion.     Think  of  my  forsaking  him. 

Marie. —  Why,  have  you  given  up  your  trip  round  the  world  ? 

Gaston. —  Am  I  not  right  to  believe  that  there  is  no  longer  any  reason 
why  I  should  take  such  a  journey  ? 

Marie. —  Are  you  quite  sure  ? 

Gaston. —  You  encouraged  me  to  hope  - 

Marie. —  To  hope  for  little  - 

Gaston. —  Yes;     But  — 

Marie. —  You  will  admit  there  was  no  engagement  ? 

Gaston. —  No,  I  asked  you  to  consider  - 

Marie. —  And  I  have  considered. 

Gaston. —  Why,  how  strangely  you  say  that  ? 

Mane. —  I  have  thought  it  out  to  its  bitter  end. 

Gaston. —  I  beg  of  you  - 

Marie. —  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  be  frank,  that 
there  was  a  litile  too  much  lightness  in  your  character,  a  carelessness  about 
your  own  interests,  and  a  scorn  for  the  material  things  of  life  that  I  should  be 
distressed  to  encounter  in  my  future  husband. 

Gaston. —  I  do  not  quite  understand 

Marie. —  At  least,  I  thought  that  this  levity,  this  indifference,  this  great 
disdain  must  come  from  some  secret  cause  I  knew  nothing  about. 

Gaston. —  I  am  still  in  the  dark. 

Marie. —  Nevertheless,  it  is  very  clear,  M.de  Morieres,and  my  reflections 
have  brought  me  to  the  conclusion  that  you  are  either  frightfully  light  or 
even  more  artful. 

Gaston. —  If  these  little  quarrels  have  no  other  end  than  to  test  my 
disposition,  quarrel  away,  Madame,  you  will  find  me  as  gentle  as  a  lamb. 

Mane. —  Yes,  I  understand  you  are  armed  against  all  tests. 

Gaston. —  I  am  armed  ?  *••/-'*.  .f  ;~f  * 

Marie. —  In  full  armor.  Against  which  the  news  of  my  poverty  made 
not  a  dint  of  impression. 

Gaston. —  Very  natural,  was  it  not  ? 

Mane. —  On  the  contrary,  it  was  very  astonishing.  As  if  it  were  of  no 
importance,  as  if  you  could  have  foreseen 

Gaston. —  As  if  it  were  of  no  importance.     Certainly. 

Mane. —  That  you  had  not  foreseen. 

Gaston. —  No. 

Marie. —  For  which  you  were  not  at  all  prepared  ? 

Gaston. —  Why,  how  could  I  have  been  ? 


PAUL  FERRIER  205 

Marie. —  Such  innocence!     You  know  my  notary,  M.  Pontgouin  ? 

Gaston. —  Very  well.     He  is  a  great  friend  of  mine. 

Marie. —  Against  such  a  friend  you  would  not  commit  the  least  indis- 
cretion ? 

Gaston. —  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Marie. —  I  mean  this.  M.  de  Chantenay's  will  was  deposited  in  the 
care  of  M.  Pontgouin.  Did  he  never  in  his  conversation  with  you  allude  to 
the  clauses  of  that  will  or  to  the  codicil  ? 

Gaston. —  Pontgouin  has  never  spoken  of  it. 

Marie. —  Nor  written  ? 

Gaston.  —  Still  less. 

Marie. —  Now  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  M.  de  Morieres,  that  it  is  not 
carelessness  you  are  guilty  of,  but  dissimulation. 

Gaston. —  Pray,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Marie. —  Oh!  Do  not  inquire,  do  not  feign  to  inquire.  You  have 
deceived  me.  It  is  easy  to  make  a  show  of  generosity  when  the  display  costs 
you  so  little.  Happily,  Providence  intervened  at  the  right  moment  to  expose 
the  imposture  which  was  unworthy  of  a  gentleman. 

Gaston. —  Great  heavens,  Madame!  I  am  led  into  a  maze  of  astonish- 
ment, I  swear  that  I  am.  Pray,  be  explicit. 

Marie. —  You  wish  it  ?  Very  well,  I  will  then  tell  you  that  I  know  every- 
thing. Do  you  understand  ?  Everything. 

Gaston. —  It  is  an  advantage  you  have  over  me,  for  I  know  nothing — 
will  you  understand  ?  Nothing. 

Marie.—  Nothing  ?  You  do  not  know  what  was  in  that  letter  of 
M.  Pontgouin'.s  that  my  gardener  just  delivered  to  you  ? 

Gaston. —  Pontgouin's  letter.     I  never  even  looked  at  it. 

Marie  (quickly  changes  her  voice}. —  Truly.  (He  takes  the  letter  from 
his  pocket  and  holds  it  towards  her.  She  seizes  it  with  both  hands.} 

Gaston. —  No,  I  thought  it  was  about  those  boundary  walls,  you  know. 
Pitou  handed  it  to  me  with  such  a  triumphant  smile  and  said:  "  Maybe 
M.  de  Morieres  will  stop  crushing  Duchess  pears." 

Marie. —  You  have  never  opened  this  letter. 

Gaston. —  Remember,  I  had  other  troubles  at  heart.  But  since  it  has 
aroused  your  suspicions,  it  is  very  easy.  (He  takes  it  to  break  the  seal.} 

Marie. —  No,  no,  don't  open  it.     I  beg  of  you. 

Gaston. —  Why  not  ?     I  am  curious  to  know  what  you  accuse  me  of. 

Mane. —  I  accuse  you  no  longer. 

Gaston.  —  Then  my  innocence  is  established  ? 


2o6  THE  CODICIL 

Marie. —  On  the  contrary,  I  ask  your  pardon  for  having  for  a  moment 
doubted  your  loyalty,  your  nobleness,  your 

Gaston. —  Yes,  you  doubted  me.  I  am  entitled  to  a  very  great  com- 
pensation, Madame. 

Marie. —  Do  you  think  it  is  in  my  power  to  give  it  to  you  ? 

Gaston. —  It  requires  only  your  good  will. 

Marie. —  We  will  discuss  it  later.     Come,  give  me  your  arm. 

Gaston. —  For  dinner  ? 

Marie. —  Yes,  M.  Pontgouin  awaits  us  in  the  dining-room. 

Gaston. —  Pontgouin!     Is  he  there  ? 

Marie. —  I  retained  him,  thinking  he  would  confound  you. 

Gaston.  —  In  reference  to  that  letter  ?     What  could  it  have  contained  ? 

Marie. —  He  will  tell  you.     It  is  within  his  province. 

Gaston. —  We  will  go,  but,  if  it  is  just  the  same  to  him,  he  had  better 
come  to-morrow. 

Marie. —  Will  his  presence  annoy  you  ? 

Gaston. —  Oh,  bother!     He  will  rob  me  of  my  tete  a  tete. 

Marie. —  Not  at  all.     Not  at  all,  you  shall  have  it  before  the  notary. 


TWO  HUSBANDS 

BY  HENRI  LAVEDAN 
Translated  from  the  French  by  R.  T.  House 

CHARACTERS 

PIERRE  DE  NISSE.     Thirty-three  years.     Poet. 

JACQUES  DUROUX.     Thirty-eight  years.     Gentleman  of  leisure. 

SCENE:  in  the  home  of  DE  NISSE.  He  is  alone,  seated  in  his  study, 
when  DUROUX  enters.} 

Duroux. —  You  :     A  poet;  you  consent  ?     Where  is  your  wife  ? 

DeNisse. —  She's  roaming  about.  She  gone's  out.  Don't  talk  about 
her,  I  can't  digest  her. 

Duroux. —  Oh! 

DeNisse. —  She  lies  heavy  on  my  stomach. 

Duroux. —  You  mean  on  your  heart.  Everybody  knows  you  married 
for  love,  and  you  did  well  to  love  so  beautiful  a  woman. 

DeNisse. —  She's  pretty,  that's  true.  But  I'd  like  her  better  if  her  face 
were  not  such  a  perfect  oval,  if  her  features  weren't  so  regular,  and  she  had  a 
little  more  brain. 

Duroux. —  Shocking!     And  you  call  yourself  a  poet. 

DeNisse. —  Yes,  I  call  myself  a  poet.  She  might  just  as  well  be  the 
wife  of  somebody  else,  a  nobody,  an  engineer,  a  colonel.  She  isn't  the  wife 
for  Pierre  de  Nisse,  author  of  "  Morning  Sobs,"  "  The  Ivory  Quiver," 
"  Severed  Veins." 

Duroux. —  And  "  The  Laughing  Willow." 

DeNisse. —  And  "  Turquoisette." 

Duroux. —  And  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  What  kind  of  a  wife  do  you 
want  ? 

DeNisse. —  The  Muse. 

Duroux. —  Rats!  Don't  you  know  that  the  Muse  gets  to  be  a  dreadful 
bore  if  you  keep  steady  company  with  her  ? 

DeNisse  (is  not  listening.  Sadly,  bitterly,  despairingly).  —  I  should 
not  have  objected,  I  admit,  to  a  being  who  would  have  sat  for  hours  opposite 
me,  looking  at  me  in  silence,  with  her  eyes  gazing  into  mine,  her  finger 
raised  like  a  sibyl,  or  one  who  by  a  furtive  electric  pressing  of  her  tiny  foot 
would  have  sent  her  soul  into  mine,  one  with  whom  I  could  have  talked 
without  restriction  of  the  moon,  of  Sirius,  of  the  Gemini,  one  who  would 

207 


208  TWO  HUSBANDS 

have  wept  every  time  a  dead  leaf  fell,  one  who  would  have  fainted  at  the 
divine  odor  of  syringa  blossoms  —  gnashing  her  teeth  - 

Duroux. —  Well,  well !     What  else  ? 

DeNisse. —  Oh,  lots  of  things!  I  can't  tell  all  she  should  have  been  — 
the  wife  dreamed  of  in  my  dreams! 

Duroux. —  Yes,  you  should  have  had  one  made  to  measure  under  your 
supervision. 

DeNisse. —  And  yet  I'm  not  hard  to  please.     I'm  unlucky,  that's  all. 

Duroux. —  Come,  now!  Don't  get  maudlin.  So  Mme.  de  Nisse 
doesn't  answer  these  —  these  modest  requirements! 

DeNisse  (raising  his  eyes  and  his  hands}. —  No  sarcasm,  please.  She's 
—  oh,  she's  nothing!  I  can't  describe  her. 

Duroux. —  A  bourgeoise  ? 

DeNisse. —  Less  than  that.  A  bourgeoise  may  have  the  gracious 
breadth  of  a  Chardin.  There  is  poetry  in  a  boiling  pot 

Duroux. —  At  least  they  begin  writh  the  same  letter. 

DeNisse. —  Yes.  I  tell  you  my  wife  is  nothing,  less  than  nothing. 
She's  a  subnothing.  She  doesn't  understand. 

Duroux. —  Does  she  try  to  ? 

DeNisse. —  No.     What  good  would  it  do  if  she  did  ?     She  couldn't. 

Duroux. —  No,  I  suppose  not. 

DeNisse. —  Well,  then  ?  I  don't  blame  her,  but  I  suffer  and  my  soul 
is  seared.  She's  frivolous,  inconsistent,  insignificant.  She's  poor  in  ideas. 

Duroux. —  When  she's  decollete  she's  certainly  rich  in  views. 

DeNisse. —  Yes,  the  exterior  is  agreeable,  but  the  soul  doesn't  har- 
monize. She  has  scarcely  ear  enough  to  distinguish  prose  from  verse. 
Her  little  mind  can  do  nothing  but  occupy  itself  with  the  care  of  my  health, 
the  management  of  the  house.  She  can  talk  only  of  indifferent  things,  of 
the  servants,  of  her  birds,  of  her  family.  I'm  going  to  make  you  an  awful 
confession.  My  poetry  puts  her  to  sleep! 

Duroux. —  Oh! 

DeNisse. —  She  has  no  love  for  my  art. 

Duroux. —  But  she  loves  you. 

DeNisse. —  Of  course;  but  I'd  rather  have  a  nose  she  didn't  like  and 
have  her  appreciate  my  talent. 

Duroux. —  In  that  case  she  would  never  have  married  you. 

DeNisse. —  Yes,  she  would.  But  in  place  of  foolishly  loving  me  for 
my  sea-green  eyes,  the  Cupid's  bow  of  my  smile,  or  the  romantic  nonchalance 
of  my  expression,  she  would  have  chosen  me  for  weightier  and  loftier  reasons, 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  209 

she  would  have  been  truly  the  sister  of  my  thought.  Yes,  I  was  thinking 
it  all  over  when  you  came  in  a  moment  ago.  I  am  alone  in  life,  on  a  solitary 
rock,  with  a  beautiful  low-browed  Eve  at  my  side.  Pity  me,  my  friend, 
pity  me. 

Duroux. —  No. 

DeNisse. —  There  you  are !  Selfish  and  pitiless !  Because  you've  fared 
well,  because  you  had  the  good  luck  to  get  hold  of  the  ideal  woman,  the  ideal 
of  the  artist  and  the  thinker 

Duroux. —  That's  enough !     Do  you  want  her  ? 

DeNisse.—  What! 

Duroux. —  Yes!  Who  wants  her?  I  won't  sell  her.  I'll  give  her 
away,  for  nothing.  The  ideal  of  the  thinker.  It's  plain  enough  that  you 
don't  know  her.  I've  got  her!  Well 

DeNisse. —  But  you're  not  a  thinker,  old  fellow. 

Duroux. —  I  should  hope  not!  I'm  nothing  but  an  unpretentious 
fellow  living  on  a  little  annuity  and  proud  of  it.  That's  good  enough  for  me. 

DeNisse. —  Yes,  that's  right.  You  bear  the  name  of  a  famous  woman 
who  has  glory  enough  for  two. 

Duroux. —  For  two  ?     Ten!     For  a  whole  neighborhood! 

DeNisse. —  All  France  has  read  her  beautiful  stories,  so  audacious,  so 
vital,  so  exhaustive. 

Duroux. —  I'm  the  one  that's  exhausted. 

DeNisse. —  Don't  get  vulgar.  You're  more  fortunate  than  I  am,  you 
know  you  are. 

Duroux. —  Am  I  ?  The  husband  of  a  she-writer  who  has  the  mis- 
fortune to  have  a  little  talent!  Why,  it's  the  lowest  of  social  positions! 
Our  bedroom  is  crammed  with  papers  and  books.  You  can't  find  room 
in  the  chairs  to  sit  down,  and  I  find  penholders  in  the  bed.  The  ink  flows 
in  torrents  over  the  carpet  and  my  wife's  fingers.  She  never  talks  of  any- 
thing but  human  documents,  states  of  soul,  the  scalpel  and  anguish;  and  at 
table,  in  place  of  a  nice  little  well-done  lamb  cutlet,  I'm  served  slices  of  real 
life,  bloody  and  sickening. 

DeNisse. —  You're  exaggerating. 

Duroux. —  No,  I'm  minifying.  Whatever  my  wife  writes,  everybody 
insists  it's  an  autobiography,  a  faithful  portrait  of  our  characters,  our  habits, 
our  interior,  a  scandalous  and  nai've  reproduction  of  our  personal  affairs. 
When  she  describes  a  husband  that's  a  fool,  or  a  joke,  or  deceived  by  his 
wife,  they  say:  "That's  him,  that's  his  picture.  He's  remarkably  well 
done."  When  she  talks  about  a  wife  that's  impudent  or  faithless  or  crazy, 
they  say:  "  How  natural  it  is!  That's  her  history,  you  know!  That's  the 


2io  TWO  HUSBANDS 

reason  she  tells  it  so  well."  And  so  I  find  the  people  looking  at  me  curiously, 
sarcastically,  or  contemptuously,  wherever  I  go.  I  see  them  whispering  and 
grinning  when  I  pass.  That's  the  sort  of  glory  the  husband  of  a  she-writer 
gets!  All  I'm  good  for  is  to  carry  messages  to  the  publishers,  to  take  the 
proofsto  the  printer,  to  visitthe  influential  critics, and  to  fight  whoever  chooses 
to  write  an  article  insulting  my  wife.  Aside  from  that,  I  do  not  exist.  I'm 
so  insignificant  that  I  heard  somebody  carry  on  behind  me  one  day,  with  one 
of  his  friends,  this  delightful  dialogue:  "Ah!  that's  the  husband  of  the 
famous  Mme.  Duroux,  isn't  it  ?  Yes,  that's  him.  What's  his  name  ?  Why 
Duroux,  of  course!  Yes,  of  course.  How  stupid  I  am!" 

DeNisse. —  You're  vain  then,  are  you  ? 

Duroux. —  Aren't  you,  too  ? 

DeNisse. —  No,  I'm  only  proud. 

Duroux. —  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  she  were  only  pretty. 

DeNisse. —  But  she  isn't  offensively  ugly,  is  she  ? 

Duroux. —  Pah! 

DeNisse. —  What  did  you  marry  her  for  ? 

Duroux.  —  I  had  official  guarantee  that  she  was  weak,  stupid,  and  good. 
That  was  what  I  wanted,  what  I'd  been  hunting  for  with  all  my  might.  An 
excellent  creature  without  originality.  And  then,  crash!  the  minute  she's 
married  she  develops  a  vocation,  a  mission,  a  genius  in  embryo,  and  all  that 
sort  of  stuff!  And  then  she  goes  to  writing!  she  publishes!  —  she  gets  on! 
Ah!  —  And  then  everybody  jumps  on  me  and  fondles  me  and  embraces  me 
and  crushes  my  hands:  My  dear  friend  —  congratulations!  How  proud 
and  happy  you  must  be!  What  sweet  satisfaction  for  a  husband!  Ah, 
you've  got  a  wife  there  that  makes  people  talk  about  you!  And  I  feel  like 
yelling  Stop!  And  besides,  she's  ill-tempered  and  hard  to  please.  When 
chapter  three  doesn't  come  out  the  way  she  wants  it  to,  the  house  shakes 
and  the  children  hide. 

DeNisse. —  That's  right,  you  do  have  children.     I  always  forget. 

Duroux. —  Two;  poor  little  imps.  They  never  have  any  fun  at  all. 
The  other  evening  my  wife  was  sore.  We  had  fifteen  people  at  dinner. 
The  Countess  of  Virage  calls  out  to  me  across  the  table:  "  Tell  me  about 
your  last;  how  is  it  ?  "  I  say:  "  It  had  its  first  tooth  this  morning."  Then 
my  wife's  furious:  "  No,  you  don't  understand!  The  Countess  means  my 
last  book." 

DeNisse. —  What  then  ? 

Duroux.  —  Then  I  said  humbly:  "  It's  in  its  nineteenth  thousand." 
And  ^everybody  said  "  Superb."  And  I  felt  as  much  like  weeping  as  I 
ever  did  in  my  life. 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  211 

DeNisse. —  Pshaw!  That  doesn't  get  you  anything.  The  fact  of  the 
matter  is,  you  see,  nobody's  ever  happy.  Let's  forget  it. 

Duroux. —  How  ? 

DeNisse. —  By  writing  poetry. 

Duroux. —  But  I  don't  - 

DeNisse. —  Take  a  drink.  Wait  a  minute.  I  have  a  bottle  of  cordial 
from  Java.  (He  rises,  brings  from  the  sideboard  a  fantastic  bottle  and  two 
iridescent  glasses."} 

Duroux. —  All  right,  let's  try  it. 

DeNisse  (fills  the  glasses'). —  What's  the  toast  ?     Our  healths  ? 

Duroux. —  Our  wives.     The  formula's  the  same. 

DeNisse. —  Yes.     (Significantly.}     To  yours. 

Duroux  (sighing}. —  To  yours. 


THE    PRIMITIVE   MAN   IN   MODERN 

FICTION 

BY  HILDA  RIDLEY 

IS  there  such  a  thing  in  these  enlightened  days  as  the  primitive  man  ? 
Probably  not;  he  has  died  out  to  a  certain  extent;  but  many  of  his 
qualities  still  survive,  and  seem  to  be  the  fashion,  especially  in  our 
late  fiction,  and  more  especially  in  fiction  written  by  women.      It 
was  not  always  so.       A  few  years  ago,  I  remember  reading  in  a 
short  article  on  certain  books  that  women  novelists  usually  made  their 
heroes  of  the  sensitive,  artistic  temperament;  and  the  hero  of  the  sensitive, 
artistic  temperament,  we  all  allow,  is  anything   but    primitive;   he   is    a 
product  of  civilization;  in  him  the  elements  are  so  mixed  that  the  feminine 
qualities  of  gentleness,  intuition,  and  sensibility  run  side  by  side  with  the 
masculine  qualities  and  make  sweet  harmony.      What  are  the  qualities 
which  distinguish  the  primitive  man  ?     They  are  the  masculine  qualities 
minus  the  feminine  ones;  that  is  to  say,  brute  strength  and  love  of  domina- 
tion.    Now,  it  is  precisely  these  qualities  which  are  being  extolled  to  the 
skies   in   our   late   fiction.      Women  writers   make  their  heroines  meekly 
subside  beneath  the  charms  of  a  square  jaw,  broad  shoulders,  and  an  in- 
satiable masculine  instinct  of  mastery;  they  leave  entirely  out  of  considera- 
tion the  finer  qualities  which  are  essential  to  life  in  these  days.     What  does 
this  sudden  popularity  of  the  primitive  man  signify  ?  It  signifies,  first  of 
all,  I  think,  that  fashions  change;  secondly,  that  there  is  a  germ  of  truth  in 
the  theory  that  women  like  strong,  dominating  men;  thirdly,  that  when  a 
great  truth  is  gaining  headway  there  is  always  a  slight  reaction. 

First,  fashions  change.  This  is  obvious,  since  it  is  only  a  few  years  ago 
that  the  writer  I  mentioned  above  complained  (he  really  seemed  chagrined) 
that  women  novelists  would  persist  in  caring  for  heroes  of  the  artistic  tem- 
perament. It  shows  at  least,  I  think  (although  I  know  men  find  this  hard  to 
believe),  that  female  writers  care  as  much  for  these  mixed  types  as  for  the 
essentially  masculine  ones.  A  propos  of  the  inability  (or  unwillingness)  of 
men  to  believe  that  women  care  for  men  who  are  not  possessed  by  the  instinct 
to  be  master  at  any  cost,  I  remember  being  rather  amused  by  Charles  Kings- 
ley's  ingenuous  remarks  in  his  'Yeast.'  The  High  Church  clerical  type,  as  we 
know,  was  Kingsley's  pet  aversion — partly  because  the  men  who  represented 

212 


HILDA  RIDLEY  213 

it  had,  in  a  very  marked  degree,  those  spiritual  qualities  which  are  reckoned 
feminine.  He  was  forced  to  acknowledge,  however,  that  this  type  attracted 
women.  Now,  there  was  only  one  way  of  getting  out  of  this,  and  that  was 
to  declare  that  however  much  women  might  appear  to  care  for  the  clerical 
type,  they,  at  heart,  preferred  the  strong,  virile  manhood  which  he  delighted 
in.  And  this  is  what  he  does.  His  logic  is  that  because  he  says  so  it  is  so. 
The  naivete  of  it  is  charming.  The  fact  remains  that  the  clerical  type  has 
always  had  a  peculiar  charm  for  women,  and  I  can  only  account  for  it  by 
believing  that  they  care  for  it  at  least  as  much  as  for  the  other. 

Secondly,  there  is  a  germ  of  truth  in  the  theory  that  women  like  strong, 
dominating  men.  And  I  may  say  that  it  would  be  very  strange  if  there 
were  not.  It  is  all  so  delightfully  unreasonable  that  a  woman  should  sur- 
render to  a  man  because  he  has  a  square  jaw  and  broad  shoulders.  And 
this  unreasonableness  takes  one  back  in  fancy  to  a  fairly  primitive  state  of 
society,  to  a  time  when  reason  did  not  count  very  much,  to  a  time  when  war 
was  the  rule  and  peace  the  exception.  In  those  days,  who  was  the  leader  of 
men  ?  Not  the  thinker,  but  the  physically  strong  man,  who  was  capable  of 
bearing  much  inevitable  hardship.  Women,  at  that  time,  had  no  choice  but  to 
be  violently  mastered,  for  the  race  was  to  the  swift  and  the  battle  to  the  strong. 
For  years  this  was  the  common  story,  and  how  can  it  have  failed  to  have  its 
biological  effect  on  both  man  and  woman  ?  Woman  got  into  the  habit  of 
being  mastered,  and  she  grew  to  like  it;  man  got  into  the  habit  of  governing, 
and  he  grew  to  like  that,  too,  —  very  much.  So  that  in  so  far  as  woman 
allows  herself  to  sentimentalize  in  fiction  over  victories  due  to  physical 
prowess,  she  is  obeying  a  very  natural  instinct  —  the  instinct  which  is  her 
heritage  from  the  ages  in  which  she  was  obliged  to  submit  to  force  of  arms. 
If  this  were  all,  we  might  pause;  but  we  know  that  it  is  not.  Green  tells  us 
in  his  *  History  of  the  English  People  '  something  of  that  slow  change  in 
*  values  '  which  is  the  work  of  evolution. 

'  From  the  moment  when  the  Armada  drifted  back  broken  to  Ferrol,  .  .  . 
the  figures  of  warriors  and  statesmen  were  dwarfed  by  the  grander  figures  of 
poets  and  philosophers.  Amid  the  throng  in  Elizabeth's  antechamber  the 
noblest  form  is  that  of  the  singer  who  lays  the  "Faerie  Queen"  at  her  feet, 
or  of  the  young  lawyer  who  muses  amid  the  splendors  of  the  presence  over 
the  problems  of  the  "Novum  Organum."  The  triumph  at  Cadiz,  the  con- 
quest of  Ireland,  pass  unheeded  as  we  watch  Hooker  building  up  his 
"  Ecclesiastical  Polity  "  among  the  sheepfolds,  or  the  genius  of  Shakspere 
rising  year  by  year  into  supremer  grandeur  in  a  rude  theater  beside  the 
Thames.' 

We  know  that  slowly  but  surely  a  new  era  dawned  on  the  world.     Who 


2i4  PRIMITIVE  MAN  IN  MODERN  FICTION 

will  now  deny  that  the  things  of  the  mind  and  spirit  are  of  infinite  more 
value  than  mere  brute  force  ?  Side  by  side  with  the  instinct  of  blind  sub- 
mission in  woman,  and  the  instinct  of  blind  mastery  in  man,  has  grown  up 
sweet  reason,  clearing  the  gloom,  showing  that  never  again  can  its  gentle 
precepts  be  ignored. 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  third  point.  What  is  the  great  truth  which  is 
gaining  headway  ?  It  is  this,  surely,  that  with  the  growth  of  reason  in  men  and 
women,  certain  usages  which  were  at  one  time  necessary  can  be  done  away 
with.  It  is  not  necessary  to  master  a  reasonable  being  by  brute  force,  if 
you  can  use  to  good  effect  the  means  of  persuasion.  Nor  does  a  reasonable 
being  consent  to  be  the  puppet  of  another.  This  is  putting  it  in  a  strong 
light;  but  I  wish  to  emphasize  the  primitive  point  of  view  in  order  to  account 
for  the  assumption  which  still  lingers  in  so  many  minds  that  women  like  to 
be  dominated.  They  do,  alas,  —  at  times;  but  this  is  only  one  side  of  it. 
The  other  side  is  that  they  are  no  longer  capable  of  self-obliteration.  Woman 
even  when  she  is  unconscious  of  it  is  in  touch  with  the  Time  Spirit,  and  the 
Time  Spirit  says,  *  Up  and  onward  forevermore.'  She  cannot  return  to  her 
old,  unreasoning  faith,  because  reason  has  become  a  factor  in  her  existence, 
and  reason,  in  its  self-sufficiency,  demands  that  she  be  absolutely  free.  But 
just  so  long  as  the  old  notion  which  I  have  accounted  for  prevails,  just  so 
long  will  woman  have  many  a  bitter  battle  to  fight,  just  so  long  will  things  be 
very  hard  for  her.  She  will  have  to  fight,  first  of  all,  against  her  natural  instinct 
of  blind  submission;  and  secondly,  she  will  have  to  fight  the  deeply  rooted 
prejudice  which  exists  in  society  against  her  complete  independence.  It 
goes  without  saying  that  there  will  be  reactions;  but  no  one  who  has  con- 
sidered the  meaning  of  the  enormous  stride  which  woman  has  made  in  the 
last  century  can  doubt  the  final  outcome. 

What  can  man  do  to  help  woman  in  this  crisis  of  her  history  ?  He  can 
help  her  most  by  '  understanding.'  The  modern  woman  has  discovered 
many  things.  She  has  discovered  that  strength  is  a  name,  and  that  there 
are  different  grades  of  strength;  that  there  is  the  strength  of  the  hewer  of 
wood  and  drawer  of  water  and  the  strength  of  the  poet  and  seer;  that  the  one 
may  hold  you  captive  by  sheer  brute  force,  and  the  other  make  you  indeed 
free  by  exquisite  understanding.  What  woman  now  asks  passionately  is, 
not  to  be  governed,  but  to  be  understood;  not  to  be  the  slave  of  a  strong  fool 
but  the  companion  of  an  equal  mind.  And  she  does  not  ask  this  through 
the  pages  of  weak  fiction,  but  through  the  voices  of  those  who  are  struggling 
in  the  battlefield  of  the  world  for  a  fuller  life,  for  a  higher  self-realization. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO'S    DRAMAS 

Second  Article:  "The  Daughter  of  Jorio" 

BY    PlETRO   ISOLA 


W 


HEN  has  D'Annunzio  given  a  purer,  more  limpid  figure 
than  Ornella?  Is  she  not,  in  the  midst  of  so  much  idolatry 
and  bestiality,  is  she  not  the  one  salient,  promising  human 
being?  Throughout  the  play  her  voice  is  as  the  sweet  song 
of  the  bird  soaring  skyward;  every  word  a  blessing,  every 
song  a  benediction.  From  the  beginning,  in  her  song, — 

'  Only  of  green  shall  be  my  arraying, 
Oili,  Oili,  Oila,' 

so  full  of  the  joy,  fragrance,  and  sparkle  of  the  fields,  until  the  last, — 

'  Mila,  Mila!  my  sister  in  Jesus, 
I  kiss  your  feet  that  bear  you  away! 
Heaven  is  for  thee!' 

She  only,  of  that  passionate  crowd,  knows,  sees  Mila's  noble  sacrifice,  and  she 
in  all  purity  has  the  right  to  utter  that  final  benediction. 

To  me  Mila,  even  taking  in  consideration  the  spiritual  element,  seems  to 
undergo  too  sudden  a  psychological  change.  She  is  projected  upon  the 
scene  with  infinite  art  and  becomes  at  once  the  dominating  power,  a  symbol. 
But  she  does  become  too  clever.  She  talks  most  delightfully;  she  maintains  a 
deep  sense  of  reality  and  an  astonishing  insight  into  things;  she  is  swayed 
by  what  is  pagan  and  Christian.  In  fine,  she  is  wonderfully  well  balanced, 
this  shepherdess  who  has  but  entered  the  house  of  Lazaro.  But  she  is  a 
splendid  contrast  to  Aligi.  The  development  of  the  Daughter  of  Jorio  and 
Francesca  da  Rimini  are  here  quite  suggestive  and  interesting  to  compare. 
Both  Francesca  and  Aligi  are  oppressed  by  an  impending  fatalism  and  we 
find  both  repeating  the  same  thought,  as,  for  instance,  when  Francesca  says, 

'  Like  running  water 
That  goes  and  goes  and  the  eye  sees  it  not, 
So  is  my  soul  '  — 

215 


2i6  D'ANNUNZIO'S  DRAMAS 

And  Aligi  also  says  to  Cosma,  — 

*  Aloof  I  stood  like  a  man  on  the  other 
Bank  of  a  river,  seeing  all  things  as  yonder 
Afar,  past  the  water  flowing  between, 
The  water  that  flows  everlastingly/ 

Both  have  a  strong  presentiment  in  their  hearts;  a  presentiment  of  the  love 
or  passion  that  is  to  possess  them;  with  Francesca  it  shall  lead  her  to  break 
her  marital  vows;  with  Aligi  to  break  tradition,  the  breaking  of  the  laws  of  the 
family.  The  profound  importance  of  that  is  accentuated  in  the  second  act, 
when  Cosma  says,  - 

*  You  have  verily  lighted 

A  holy  lamp  in  your  darkness, 

Yet  it  is  not  enkindled  in  limits  appointed 

Chosen  out  of  old  time  by  your  fathers.' 

Both  these  persons  are  under  an  irresistible  spell,  yet  how  strongly  Mila's 
figure  contrasts  with  that  of  Aligi,  while  Paolo  gives  no  adequate  contrast  to 
hisFrancesca.  Perhapsthisis  the  causeof  suchrapid  change  in  Mila.  The 
introduction  of  the  fireside  has  been  a  source  of  variety  and  power  in  the 
first  act.  By  placing  Mila  there  a  powerful  avocation  takes  place  and  she 
becomes  the  predominant  figure  of  the  whole  scene,  not  only  from  the  artistic 
effect,  but  because  we  know  at  once  that  she  holds  within  her  the  fate  of  the 
whole  family.  Standing  erect  upon  the  hearth  she  becomes  a  symbol  and  a 
power  whom  all  must  obey;  the  kindred  accuse  her  of  sinfulness  or  pro- 
fanity, but  they  are  obedient  to  that  inflexible  power,  that  law  of  protection 
and  hospitality.  In  the  Abruzzi,  where  these  laws,  ancient  as  they  are,  remain 
of  almost  pristine  veneration,  the  sense  of  hospitality  is  rendered  very  keen  by 
the  fact,  not  only  that  the  land  has  been  impervious  or  slow  to  the  [changes 
wrought  by  intervening  years,  but  by  the  necessity  of  mutual  protection  so 
vital  in  those  lonely,  remote  regions.  And  this  sanctity  is  not,  in  the  Abruzzi, 
limited  to  the  fireplace,  but  extends  over  the  whole  house  and  even  adjacent 
land.  In  fact  the  land  itself  might  suffer  by  the  breaking  of  such  law,  as 
D'Annunzio  indicates  in  another  tragedy:  '  Sir,  you  are  on  your  own  prem- 
ises; it  is  wrong,  and  it  is  sinister  for  the  land  that  surrounds  your  threshold; 
it  is  sinister  to  menace  one  who  does  not  harm  you.  I  go,  nor  will  I  return. 
Once  beyond  your  door  I  will  bare  my  feet  and  cast  the  sandals  in  the  raging 
torrent.' 


PIETRO  ISOLA  217 

At  the  time  of  the  first  performances  of  this  play,  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
enthusiasm  the  general  verdict  favored  the  first  act  as  the  most  perfect  of  the 
tragedy.  To  those  who  have  so  far  only  read  the  play  the  first  act  does  not 
seem  in  any  way  superior  to  the  others,  and  such  an  impression,  received  by 
ocular  assistance,  must  be  due  to  the  element  of  picturesqueness  and  for  the 
fact  that  all  in  that  scene  is  of  a  character  to  be  easily  grasped  and  assimilated. 
Surely  when  we  read  the  second  act  we  find  it  replete  with  beauty  in  texture, 
smoothness,  and  vigor,  and  its  splendid  contrasts  of  types  and  action.  There 
is  in  it  so  much  of  the  true  life  of  that  Italy,  older  than  Christianity,  ascend- 
ing to  remote  periods, — the  millenary  soul  of  that  agrestic  and  pastoral 
country.  The  act  begins  with  Mila's  incantation  and  gradually  ascends 
with  that  amoebean  song  which  is  the  jewel  of  the  tragedy.  A  song  full  of 
poetry  and  of  that  lyric  melody  that  is  the  true  characteristic  of  what  it  rep- 
resents. The  peaceful  scene  in  the  silence  of  the  mountains;  the  silent 
Angel  silhouetted  against  he  sky;  the  semi-religious  language  of  Aligi;  the 
saintly  answers  coming  from  Cosma;  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  demon- 
possessed  youth,  and  the  dark  sorrowful  figure  of  Ornella;  the  dying  lamp 
before  the  Virgin;  the  prostrate  figure  of  Mila,  all  prepare  and  form  a  strong 
background  to  the  brutal,  diabolical  incursion  of  the  father,  Lazaro  di  Roio, 
leadingtothe fatal  moment, —  to  parricide.  Every  part  of  the  act  seems  per- 
fectly modelled  and  in  no  other  play  has  D'Annunzio  shown  more  power, 
more  tragedy,  as  he  has  not  in  any  other  play  shown  greater  self-restraint  — 
a  true  indication  of  art. 

The  third  act  offers  no  less  interest  in  all  its  elements.  Lazaro's  body 
within  stretched  on  the  bare  floor  or  earth,  his  head  resting  upon  a  bundle 
of  grapevine  branches.  Here  again  we  find  the  pagan  element  and  the 
Christian  linked.  In  the  first  act  Aligi  says  to  the  mother, — 

'  Santo  Giovanni  said  to  me:  *  Rest  in  safety, 
Without  holy  candles  thou  shalt  not  die.' 

Lazaro  has  died  unconfessed,  unabsolved.  But  he  is  truly  in  the  lap  of  his 
mother,  Nature,  and  the  grapevine  links  him  to  the  Dyonisan  period  and 
myths.  Thus  if  the  Church  deprives  him  of  catafalque  and  candles,  pagan- 
ism offers  him  its  symbols.  The  bewailers  surround  the  body,  praying, 
singing,  weeping;  the  penitent  Aligi  arrives,  followed  by  the  crowd  carrying 
the  mysterious  carven  angel,  and  the  mother  offers  the  consolo  that  is  to  render 
less  fearful  his  last  moments.  Again  the  luminous  moment  arrives  and 
Mila  di  Codra  appears  to  prove  Aligi  innocent  and  to  prove  also  the  sincerity 


2i8  D'ANNUNZIO'S  DRAMAS 

of  her  transformation,  and  by  immolating  herself  to  save  the  man  by  whose 
love  she  has  been  redeemed.     '  The  flame  is  beautiful.' 

LA  FIACCOLA  SOTTO  IL  MoGGio.  It  has  been  said, —  and  things  often 
said  become  unassailable  truths  in  the  mind  of  the  utterers, —  it  has  been 
said  that  the  so-called  strenuous  life  is  of  the  North  and  especially  of  the 
Americans  of  that  section.  Surely  D'Annunzio,  Latin  and  Southerner, 
proves  that  some  of  that  energy,  of  that  restless  vitality,  is  also  of  his  people. 
One  year  after  the  first  performance  of  the  play  just  considered  another 
important  tragedy  was  placed  upon  the  stage.  This  we  must  admit  rep- 
resents a  very  strenuous  industry  and  a  portentous  power  of  work,  when  we 
consider  also  all  the  other  forms  of  literary  activities  to  which  this  writer, 
monthly  and  weekly,  gives  expression. 

If  it  was  Michetti  that  in  a  great  measure  gave  impetus  and  inspiration 
to  the  completion  of '  The  Daughter  of  Jorio '  by  his  painting  of  the  same  sub- 
ject, it  was  surely  the  same  artist  who  by  his  other  painting,  '  I  Serpenti,' 
inspired  him,  if  not  with  the  whole,  with  one  important  feature  of  '  The 
Light  under  the  Bushel.'  It  was  only  in  1900  that  Michetti  exhibited  that 
painting  illustrating  a  singular  procession  that  took  place  in  the  Abruzzi. 
The  meaning  of  it  is  lost  in  the  remotest  anti-Christian  and  pre-Roman 
periods,  and  whatever  may  have  been  in  its  primitive  rite  the  tutelary  god 
or  priest,  within  our  era  and  in  that  section,  St.  Dominick  seems  to  be  the 
patron  saint,  although  I  do  not  know  what  his  relation  with  snakes  may  have 
been.  D'Annunzio,  however,  links  again  pagan  and  Christian  rites.  The 
procession  itself  is  a  most  astounding  performance,  repulsive  and  attractive 
at  once.  Therein  appears  so  much  of  that  primordial  power;  so  much  of  the 
passion  and  mystery,  that  it  becomes  irresistible,  although  no  less  terrible 
than  the  procession  so  vividly  described  in  '  The  Triumph  of  Death.'  One 
sees  advancing  the  puppet-like,  rigid,  undulating  statue  of  the  saint,  carried 
upon  the  shoulders  of  stalwart  men.  Singular  mixture  of  pagan  idolatry  and 
Christian  rite.  Children  in  the  garb  of  angels  glide  about  among  men  and 
women  carrying  loathsome  serpents  encircled  about  their  bodies,  their  arms, 
their  necks.  The  moving,  writhing  curves  of  the  serpents  contrast  omi- 
nously with  the  bodies  of  the  men  and  women  rendered  rigid,  cataleptic,  by 
fear  and  passion;  flowers;  men,  old  and  young;  women,  comely  and  haggard; 
serpents  and  flaming  torches;  feral  cries  and  holy  words;  Latin  prayers  and 
vernacular  oaths  and  fair-winged  children,  all  moving  and  fused  in  that 
living  mass  with  the  old  saint  still  undulating  in  rhythmic  motion,  upon  the 
shoulders  of  devotees,  with  the  red  standard  still  flaunting  its  menacing  red 
folds,  like  tongues  of  fire;  and  the  sun  beating  fiercely  upon  the  loathsome 


PIETRO  ISOLA  219 

scene,  the  procession  goes  on  from  house  to  house,  from  street  to  street, 
from  hill  to  hill,  to  an  interminable  end,  where  they  fall  exhausted. 

D'Annunzio  does  not  introduce  the  procession  in  his  tragedy,  but  he  intro- 
duces the  snake  charmer  with  much  effect,  and  thus  conveys  his  usual  idea 
of  connection  with  the  primitive  days.  There  is  nothing  in  the  whole  play, 
historical  and  archeological,  that  is  not  corroborated  by  facts.  If  he  intro- 
duces the  snake  charmer,  the  locality  warrants  its  presence,  because  in  the 
days  of  antiquity  snakes  were  venerated  there,  and  vestiges  have  been  uncov- 
ered of  the  precincts  where  the  'horrid  rite,'  took  place.  If  he  speaks  of 
feudal  period  and  the  Sangros  and  Acclozamoras  are  introduced,  we  can 
still  go  and  see  their  castles.  Their  families  are  still  extant. 

The  moment  that  the  tragedy  develops  is  that  of  the  fall  of  feudalism  by 
its  weight  of  sin.  How  skillfully  he  describes  the  decay  and  hatred  and  sin- 
fulness  by  crystallizing  it  all  in  the  decay  and  hatred  and  sinfulness  of  one 
family.  Tebaldo  di  Sangro  and  Bernardo  Acclozamora  represent  with 
their  perennial  quarrels  the  last  days  of  the  feudal  time.  The  mother, 
Donna  Algerina,  is  wholly  unconscious  of  the  change  that  is  to  take  place; 
of  the  impending,  sinister  punishment  that  is  to  overtake  the  family.  She  is 
ever  occupied  in  diligent  search  among  the  family  papers,  for  the  one  docu- 
ment that,  found,  would  lift  the  family  to  its  pristine  wealth  and  power.  In 
the  directions  for  stage  setting  D'Annunzio  is  very  exacting  that  every 
minute  detail  shall  accentuate  the  decay,  and  the  speeches  persistently  accen- 
tuate that  condition.  Simonetto  and  Gigliola  are  the  two  children  by  the 
first  marriage  of  Tebaldo;  innocent  victims  of  the  father's  sins.  These  youths 
can  hardly  be  said  to  belong  to  the  past,  and  yet  we  feel  intuitively  that  they 
are  not  to  be  of  the  future  nor  present;  they  are  the  last  barren  buds  of  a 
decayed  family.  Simonetto  is  sickly,  condemned  to  an  early  death;  impotent 
to  arise;  a  mere  living  thing  in  whom  is  visited  a  great  punishment.  Gig- 
liola, the  sister,  is  to  be  the  terrible  avenger,  she  holds  within  her  young  heart 
a  fearful  secret;  the  knowledge  of  the  murder  of  her  mother  at  the  hands  of 
her  father  and  Angizia,  who  has  since  become  his  wife.  This  ever-dominant 
thought  transforms  this  sweet  flower,  as  the  name  implies,  into  a  most  formid- 
able, relentless  enemy  within  the  household.  In  her  implacability,  in  her  al- 
most demented  action  and  sinister  utterances,  she  contrasts  effectively  with 
the  two  old  nurses,  Arabella  and  Benedetta,  untouched  remnants  of  a  better 
past.  Their  life  has  been  one  continuous  self-abnegation;  solicitous,  tender 
over  the  old  grandmother,  with  whom  they  have  grown  up,  they  now  pour  all 
the  sweetness  of  their  hearts  upon  the  last  two  scions.  They  see  ruin  over- 
take the  family;  yet  they  remain  at  their  post,  faithful,  trustful.  Angizia, 
the  second  wife,  and  her  father,  Edia  Fura,  are  the  two  local  figures,  and  both 


220  D'ANNUNZIO'S  DRAMAS 

symbolize  the  mysterious  power  preserved  through  the  changing  centuries 
of  cults  and  faiths,  but  Edia  Fura  maintains  in  all  its  purity  the  ascetic 
element,  while  Angizia  has  become  negative  and  a  brutal  murderess.  She 
has  entered  the  family  as  a  servant,  has  become  the  wife  of  the  Barone,  and 
is  suspected  by  Gigliola,  who  in  her  conversation  unfolds  the  secret  of  the 
murder  of  the  mother,  found  crushed  under  the  lid  of  a  gigantic  cassone. 
Gigliola,  touchingly  beautiful  when  in  contact  with  the  grandmother  or 
ministering  to  Simonetto,  is  dark,  relentless,  when  confronting  the  father  or 
'  the  other.'  She  is  awaiting  the  anniversary  of  the  mother's  death  (the  very 
day  the  action  takes  place),  the  day  when  '  the  other  '  shall  meet  her  fate  and 
punishment.  She  says:  *  Nothing  of  youth  is  left  to  me.  In  one  year  the 
springtime  of  my  youth  has  flown.  I  have  ripened  in  the  shadow/ 

There  is  an  angry  quarrel  between  the  two  brothers,  very  strongly  depict- 
ing the  atmosphere  of  the  house  or  home;  it  is  a  bitter  quarrel  and  contrasts 
in  its  cruel  utterances  with  the  language  of  the  mot  her,  who,  hearing  the  angry 
altercation,  appears.  Words  full  of  sorrow,  full  of  dignity,  of  power,  and 
among  the  best  in  the  play. 

There  is  also  a  passage  between  father  and  daughter,  when  the  latter 
finally  confronts  him  with  the  question:  'Who,  who  caused  her  death? 
the  truth,  the  truth ! '  The  passage,  terrible  in  itself,  is  intensified  by  the  intro- 
duction of  the  stepmother,  Angizia,  who  of  course  recognizes  in  Gigliola 
her  silent  accuser. 

Angizia:  What  have  you  to  say  ?  Say  it  all,  all;  speak!  My  eyes  will  not 
be  lowered  before  yours;  no,  they  will  not;  I  know  what  you  are  saying  when 
your  gaze  is  fixed  upon  me:  *  It  is  you,  it  is  you!  '  it  says:  "  Well,  yes,  it  is  I.' 

Tebaldo  wishes  to  prevent  such  confession,  although  innocent  himself,  and 
commands  her  to  be  silent,  but  Angizia,  now  angered,  bursts  out  in  all  her 
inborn  brutality: 

'  No,  I  do  not  lie.  It  is  true;  it  is  true.  I  am  the  one ;  I  say  it  and  my  eyes 
are  not  lowered.  Behold!  I  have  answered.  I  do  not  fear.  It  is  to-day 
one  year.  What  will  you  do  ?  What  can  you  do  ?  I  am  protected  by  your 
father.  We  were  two,  we  are  two.  I  say  this  that  you  may  know  that  to 
reach  me  you  have  to  prostrate  your  father/ 

Now  we  surely  know  what  to  expect.  What  was  simply  a  suspicion  has 
become  a  confessed  certainty;  war  is  opened  in  all  its  fierceness;  all  that 
remains  to  know  is  the  form  that  revenge  and  punishment  will  take.  Thus 
far  Gigliola  has  warned  the  father  and  '  the  other  '  that  the  anniversasy  was 
at  hand,  and  on  that  day  would  be  fulfiled  the  promise  made  by  Gigliola 
over  the  tomb  of  the  mother. 

Edia  Fura,  the  snake  charmer,  has  heard  rumors  of  the  marriage  of  his 


PIETRO  ISOLA  221 

daughter  with  the  Barone  and  has  come  down  for  the  day  of  St.  Dominick; 
he  does  not  believe  this  marriage  has  taken  place,  nor  indeed  would  Edia 
deem  it  a  great  honor  to  be  connected  with  the  barons,  because  he  has  the 
dignity  of  a  most  remote  ancestry,  all  in  the  service  of  the  Sanctuary. 

He  pursues  the  genus  that  glides  and  leaves  no  trace.  All  that  others 
cannot  hear  he  hears;  not  with  the  ear,  but  by  a  power  that  dwells  within 
him.  He  plays  in  his  own  manner  upon  the  flute,  made  of  the  bone  of  the 
deer,  but  no  other  has  that  skill.  He  only  knows,  as  his  dead  knew  before 
him.  Such  is  his  power,  such  his  art,  and  of  aught  else  he  cares  not;  no  more 
than  for  the  skin  shed  by  the  snake. 

A  manwhohasthat  power  and  feels  hisdignityis  not  likelyto  rejoice  over 
the  marriage  of  his  daughter.  His  wife,  however,  advises  him  to  go  and 
ascertain,  and  he  departs.  He  is  seen  prowling  about  the  premises  of  the 
Barons,  and  of  course  the  servants  immediately  recognize  in  him  the  father 
of  Angizia,  who,  on  her  part,  as  soon  as  she  discovers  his  presence,  has  him 
chased  away,  in  fact  casts  stones  and  imprecations  herself.  Gigliola  dis- 
covers him  in  the  garden,  where  he  is  hiding,  and  leads  him  within  the  house. 
He  is  wounded;  his  hand  bleeding  and  his  heart  broken  by  the  unfilial  and 
brutal  reception.  Gigliola  soothes  and  bandages  his  hand  and  also  endeav- 
ors to  pour  sweet  balsam  in  his  poor  old  heart: 

Giglio. —  Has  a  snake  bitten  you  ? 

Edia. —  You  have  said  it. 

Gigliola. —  A   poisonous   one  ? 

Edia. —  You  have  said  it. 

Gigliola.—  Will  it  kill  ? 

Edia. —  It  may,  or  it  may  not. 

Gigliola. —  Sit  there  and  give  me  your  hand  that  I  may  bandage  it. 

Edia. —  I  did  not  hold  you  in  my  arms  when  you  were  crying.  You  I 
did  not  rock  in  the  cradle;  for  you  I  did  not  take  the  morsel  of  bread  from  my 
mouth,  nor  withheld  I  the  drink  of  water  from  my  parched  throat,  that  you 
might  grow  and  bloom  to  beauty.  Yet  you  fling  no  stones  at  me,  nor  impre- 
cations; you  bandage  my  wounded  hand. 

Gigliola  begins  to  ply  him  with  questions  as  to  what  he  has  in  the  goat- 
skin bag,  that  with  the  green  cord.  Are  the  snakes  really  poisonous  ?  and,  if 
one  were  to  place  his  hands  within  the  bag,  would  he  be  bitten,  and  would 
death  come,  and  how  soon  ?  Could  he  leave  the  bag  with  her  for  a  little  while 

o 

that  she  might  show  it  to  her  little  brother  ?  Of  course  the  snake  charmer 
rejects  such  a  demand,  but  out  of  gratitude  he  offers  some  presents: 

Edia. —  Edia  asks  nothing.  He  gives.  He  begs  no  drink  of  water  nor 
morsel  of  bread.  He  tarries  not  upon  thresholds.  He  is  brother  to  the 


222  D'ANNUNZIO'S  DRAMAS 

wind.  He  says  little.  He  knows  the  value  of  silence.  He  sweeps  over  the 
valley.  He  has  the  claw  of  the  vulture;  a  sharp  eye;  the  slightest  sign  suffices 
him.  Let  the  grass  blade  sway  and  he  knows  the  wherefore.  Edia  does  not 
beg,  but  gives.  I  had  brought  this  comb  for  the  bride.  (May  the  icy  wind 
snarl  her  hair!)  And  this  necklace  ?  (May  it  lay  heavy  as  a  brazen  yoke!) 
And  see  this  long  coronal.  (May  it  pierce  her  throat  from  side  to  side!) 

Gigliola. —  Is  it  a  crinal  ?     It  is  as  large  as  a  stiletto. 

Edia. —  Look!  See  this  glass  vessel  —  its  luster  is  like  the  skin  of  the 
serpent  under  the  midday  sun. 

Gigliola. —  Where  have  you  found  these  things  ? 

Edia. —  Above  Luco  towers  a  mountain,  steep  and  swarming  with 
snakes,  called  Angizia;  the  name  of  your  stepmother.  There  I  go  to  find  my 
prey  —  and  there  in  the  old,  old  times  was  a  city;  a  city  of  magic  kings. 
While  rummaging  in  a  hollow  spot  I  discovered  among  bones  three  covered 
vessels  of  dark  clay;  in  the  first  I  found  grains  of  barley;  in  the  second  the 
skins  of  grapes;  in  the  third  these  things  that  I  now  give  you. 

Gigliola. —  To    me  ? 

Edia. —  Yes,  to  you;  I  have  no  daughter  now. 

Gigliola. —  I  take  the  crinal  only. 

At  this  juncture  Bertrando  Acclazamora  appears  with  Angizia.  Edia 
rises  with  haste  to  escape  from  them  and  Gigliola  seizes  the  occasion  to  with- 
draw and  hide  the  goatskin  bag  containing  the  most  virulent  snakes.  Angi- 
zia again  insults  the  father,  calling  him  a  thief  and  as  one  whom,  in  her  child- 
hood, she  now  remembers,  the  children  chased  and  hooted  through  the 
streets.  Bertrando  orders  him  out,  pushing  him  toward  the  entrance  gates. 
Edia  then  pronounces  his  malediction  upon  the  daughter:  a  malediction  that 
could  come  only  from  such  a  man: 

'  He  whom  you  have  renounced  and  also  stoned  will  burn  the  ancient 
oaken  cradle  wherein  he  rocked  you;  the  cradle  yet  fastened  to  the  great  bed 
by  the  worn  cord;  therein  are  the  kernels  of  wheat  and  the  grains  of  salt  and 
the  pellets  of  bread  and  of  wax.  Yet,  he  will  not  burn  it  upon  the  hearth, 
but  on  the  highway  where  the  four  roads  cross  and  the  winds  moan  and  the 
hounds  howl.  And  may  your  ashes  be  scattered  as  those  ashes;  and  may  you 
ever  meet  night's  darkness  with  fear  and  trembling. 

Edia  followed  by  Bertrando  goes  forth. 

Passing  by  the  other  parts  of  the  tragedy  I  come  to  the  close  —  with  the 
prayer  of  Gigliola  before  the  fatal  hour  of  revenge  and  self-destruction; 
Gigliola  has  given  orders  that  all  the  tapers  and  lamps  in  the  family  chapel 
be  lighted,  '  that  I  may  find  the  great  light  when  I  return:'  'Mother,  all  the 
lamps  be  lighted,  mother,  all  the  torches,  for  the  great  sacrifice  of  the  hour 


PIETRO  ISOLA  223 

that  shall  have  no  equal.  I  have  known  the  slow  destruction,  day  by  day, 
breathing  the  dust  of  things  decayed.  The  great  sorrow  was  for  a  year,  my 
only  father.  My  father  was  called  destruction.  The  other  was  mine  no 
longer,  you  know,  because  they  are  two  and  two  they  were  in  their  cruelty. 
Mother,  give  me  now  the  strength  to  go  to  you  purified,  pacified;  to  you  who 
left  in  my  heart  the  call  of  death.  I  place  that  death  close  to  me  and  go  forth 
to  the  revenge;  will  that  I  may  not  turn  or  retrace  my  steps,  nor  halt.  And 
as  your  end  was  atrocious,  so  I  will  it  to  be  for  me  who  did  not  guard  over 
you,  who  did  not  save  you.  And  the  more  cruel  my  suffering  the  nearer  I 
will  be  to  you;  be  coupled  to  you,  fuse  myself  in  you,  O  mother,  as  in  the 
days  when  you  bore  me  in  your  saintly  silence.' 

At  the  close  of  this  prayer  she  takes  the  bag  containing  the  loathsome 
and  poisonous  things  and  plunges  both  hands  within: 

'  It  is  done,  mother,  you  have  given  the  strength,  but,  mother,  be  with 
me  longer  yet.' 

In  the  third  scene  Gigliola  appears,  her  features  contracted  beyond 
recognition,  her  hands  swollen  and  black.  Gigliola  asks: 

'  Where  is  my  father  ?     *  Who  has  killed  her  ?  who  has  killed  her  ? 

Nurses. —  Of  whom  is  she  speaking;  of  the  saintly  soul  ? 

Gigliola. —  No;  of  the  woman;  she  is  there,  dead!  I  found  her  dead 
upon  the  bed.  No,  I  am  not  delirious;  I  saw  her,  dead. 

The  father  appears  on  the  threshold,  and  in  seeing  him  the  daughter 
comprehends: 

'  You!  the  blood  is  upon  you.' 

Tebaldo. —  I  — Yes!  I  have  killed  her.  Her  blood  is  upon  me.  You 
are  revenged. 

Gigliola. —  You  could  not.  The  vow  was  mine  and  mine  only.  Vic- 
tim for  victim! 

Tebaldo. — I  have  done  it,  daughter,  that  your  hand  be  not  contaminated. 
In  this  sacrifice  I  have  wiped  out  my  own  shame. 

Gigliola. —  You  have  only  sealed  the  accusing  lips. 

Tebaldo. —  Those  lips  lied,  that  I  might  be  lost  to  your  heart.  Oh!  have 
pity,  daughter,  have  pity! 

Gigliola. —  Touch  me  not.  She  has  called  me;  she  calls  me.  I  must 
go.  I  have  the  bed  for  my  last  hour;  there  upon  the  stone  that  was  closed  by 
two 

Tebaldo. —  Oh,  how  implacable!  Hear  me.  My  heart  is  broken.  I 
also  will  not  survive.  I  speak  already  from  the  shadow. 

Gigliola. —  Ah  me!  miserable,  who  lighted  the  lamps  and  now  must 
darken  them.  Let  shadow  come.  All  the  shadow  upon  her  who  could  not 


224  D'ANNUNZIO'S  DRAMAS 

fulfil  the  vow.  Put  out  the  lights;  turn  the  torches  down,  strike  them  upon 
the  earth.  I  have  not  known  how  to  hold  mine  erect.  All  was  in  vain. 
Addio,  addio.  Let  no  one  follow  me. 

This  tragedy  may  not  compare,  perhaps,  with  'The  Daughter  of  Jorio/ 
but  it  is  of  a  very  high  literary  value.  For  stage  purpose  it  is  rather  too 
monotonous,  but  in  it  D'Annunzio  has  made  luminous  a  period  wrought 
with  much  promise  for  Italy,  and  in  fact,  humanity  at  large.  The  tragedy 
is  there  in  all  its  potency;  irresistible,  silent.  The  more  terrible  for  its  irre- 
sistibility, the  more  sinister  for  its  silence,  the  more  hopeless  for  its  bursting 
into  the  midst  of  the  family  and  home.  Singling  out  the  different  characters 
I  should  place  the  serparo  Edia,  as  the  best,  surely  the  most  expressive  of 
what  D'Annunzio  wishes  to  impart.  He  is  strong,  massive,  all  one  piece. 
The  representative  of  the  great  and  ancient  traditions  of  the  Abruzzi,  he 
enters  the  scene  with  the  dignity  born  of  inherent  power  and  he  leaves  it,  not 
to  go  to  destruction  and  extinction,  like  all  the  other  characters,  but  to  go 
forth  in  the  world;  to  return  to  his  mountains  with  the  same  dignity  and  the 
power  of  his  ancestors;  conscious  of  the  future  before  him,  of  the  future  of  the 
Abruzzi,  of  the  future  of  Italy.  Edia  is  not  the  masterman;  he  represents 
the  people,  the  true  and  only  Master. 

I  have  endeavored  in  this  sketch  of  D'Annunzio's  dramatic  works  to  be 
frank  in  condemnation  and  admiration.  All  of  his  works  have  great  literary 
value,  and  if  the  ideas  exposed  in  them  do  not  harmonize  with  mine  or  ours, 
he  surely  has  the  courage  of  his  own  convictions  and  says  wrhat  he  has  to  say 
in  a  frank  manner.  He  is  a  genius,  and  that  stamp  is  in  all  his  works.  What 
would,  after  all,  be  dramatic  art  in  Italy  without  this  gifted  and  industrious 
writer  ? 


THE    POETRY  OF  ETHNA  CARBERY 

BY  WILLIAM  J.  MERRILL  ,    j 

IRELAND  presents  in  literature  a  peculiar  duality.     In  her,  in  ages 
past,  were  the  fountains  of  poesy  and  romance.     Wonderful  indeed 
is  that  tremendous  power  of  ideas  by  which  the  Celtic  race,  for  so 
many  centuries  conquered  and  downtrodden,  has  enslaved  its  con- 
querors,  laying  upon  them  the  indelible  impress  of  its  genius.     Hers 
are  their  boasted  tales  of  knightly  renown,  of  chivalrous  daring  and  ro- 
mantic love.     Engulfing  not  only  a  race  and  its  lands,  but  its  literature  as  well, 
the  victorious  nations,  in  that  last,  confessed  in  so  far  their  own  inferiority. 
Wherever  the  Arthurian  legends,  the  Niebelungen  tales,  the  romances  of 
the    Decameron   are   found,   there   the  genius   of  the   Celtic   imagination 
has  retrieved  the  conquests  which  the  Celtic  arms  were  unable  to  prevent. 

When  Ireland  was  overshadowed  by  the  great  wing  of  English  supre- 
macy —  represented  in  literature  by  the  dominance  of  the  English  language 
and  the  virtual  suppression  of  the  Gaelictongue — the  lamp  of  Celtic  inspiration 
burned  dimly  and  seemed  about  to  go  out.  Literature  in  Ireland  during  the 
past  century  and  a  half  seems  to  be  the  record  of  the  struggle  of  the  Celtic 
soul  to  throw  off  the  superincumbent  weight  of  an  alien  thought  and  litera- 
ture and  be  herself  again.  Some  that  might  have  been  her  strongest  cham- 
pions in  the  fight  were  drawn  aside  into  the  alien  ranks.  So  completely  have 
the  names  of  Goldsmith,  Sheridan,  Swift,  and  others  become  linked  with  the 
dominant  English  tradition  that  one  often  forgets  that  the  strength  with 
which  they  builded,  in  the  temple  of  the  Saxon's  fame,  was  drawn  from  the 
veins  of  Erin,  if  not  from  her  magical  wells  of  thought.  But  there  were 
humbler  writers  who  found  expression  in  the  Gaelic  language,  through 
whom  the  Celtic  spirit  still  continued  to  speak,  though  faintly.  Long  years 
and  the  earnest  efforts  of  many  faithful  minds  and  hearts  were  necessary  to 
enable  that  Celtic  spirit  to  express  itself  clearly  and  truly,  through  the  medium 
which  had  been,  as  it  were,  thrown  over  its  own  natural  means  of  expression. 
If  we  insist  that  a  distinctive  literature  cannot  exist  apart  from  a  distinc- 
tive language,  then  there  really  can  be  no  Irish  literature  except  that  which 
is  written  in  the  Gaelic.  But  if  we  consider,  as  seems  more  reasonable,  that 
it  is  the  mental  viewpoint,  or  the  spiritual  attitude — be  it  called  what  it  may 
— the  peculiar  and  characteristic  way  of  seeing,  feeling,  thinking,  and 
expressing,  that  is  the  real  soul  of  a  literature,  its  unifying  principle,  rather 

225 


226          POETRY  OF  ETHNA  CARBERY 

than  the  language  used,  then  the  term  *  Irish  Literature'  assumes  a  wider 
significance.  The  dictionary  seems  then  an  insufficient  bond  to  identify  as 
solely  part  of  English  literature,  writings  that  teem  with  Celtic  thought  and 
feeling,  though  they  be  expressed  in  English  words.  Then,  the  work  of 
those  writers  who,  though,  through  stress  of  circumstances  they  used  the 
English  language,  nevertheless  drew  their  inspiration  and  strength  from 
Ireland  and  the  Irish  tradition,  keeping  true  to  them  so  far  as  in  them  lay, 
seem  to  have  a  rightful  claim  to  be  classed  as  belonging  to  Irish  literature, — 
a  literature,  whether  in  Gaelic  or  English,  distinct  and  individual,  and  reach- 
ing, century  upon  century,  back  into  a  rich  and  glorious  past. 

In  this  literature  that  is  distinctly  Irish  the  poetical  element  is  noticeably 
predominant.  We  are  told  that  the  poets  of  the  olden  times  in  Erin  stood 
next  in  rank  to  the  kings,  wearing  one  less  of  the  distinguishing  colors  of  rank 
than  they.  When  the  ancient  bards  had  passed  away  with  thefallofthechief- 
tainry  which  they  represented,  the  poets  of  the  common  people  took  their 
places.  Their  number  during  the  eighteenth  century,  says  Dr.  Douglas 
Hyde,  was  prodigious.  And  to-day  the  mantles  of  them,  and  of  the  bards, 
have  fallen  on  worthy  shoulders  —  for  a  band  of  singers  and  dreamers  as 
thoroughly  Irish  as  any  that  have  gone  before,  but  with  a  message  and  mis- 
sion of  more  world-wide  scope,  is  digging  again  the  ancient  springs,  whence 
is  flowing  once  more  the  clear,  pure  stream  of  Irish  poetry  —  chiefest  branch 
of  the  *  new  '  Celtic  literature. 

The  poetry  of  Ireland,  so  far  as  it  is  typically  Irish,  whether  expressed  in 
the  Gaelic  or  in  English,  seems  to  possess  as  its  distinctive  characteristic  a 
peculiar  strain  of  sadness.  The  Gael  sings  not,  like  the  English  bard,  of 
victory  and  conquest  —  of  the  glory  and  the  joy  of  life.  The  sweet  singers 
of  Erin  —  those  who  have  not  sold  their  birthright  —  are  true  even  in  their 
most  personal  notes  to  the  sorrows  of  their  motherland;  and  when  the  woes 
and  the  wrongs  of  that  motherland  are  themselves  the  subject  of  their  lays, 
we  recall  no  poetry  of  patriotism  which  breathes  such  fervent  devotion,  such 
an  intense  personal  affection  for  even  the  very  rocks  and  hills  of  the  country 
of  its  love,  as  that  of  Ireland's  loyal  sons  and  daughters.  The  sorrows  of 
Kathleen  Ni  Houlihan  —  one  of  the  many  appellations  under  which  the 
green  island  is  sung  —  seem  to  have  colored  so  deeply  the  lives  of  her  chil- 
dren that  '  all  their  songs  must  echo '  sighing  and  their  laughter  trill 
with  tears.'  Search  all  through  the  writings  of  the  genuinely  Irish  poets, 
and  the  note  of  sadness  is  never  far  away.  The  infinite  pathos  of  the  viol  is 
theirs,  sometimes  for  a  little  the  stirring  strains  of  the  pipes  or  their  rollicking 
lilt,  but  seldom  or  neverthe  solemn  joy  of  the  organ's  tones.  The  hopes  they 
sing  are  forlorn  hopes;  the  victories  they  declaim  are  those  that  are  to  be 


WILLIAM  J.  MERRILL  227 

won  in  some  brighter  day;  the  leaders  they  praise  are  those  who  died  fighting 
for  country  and  kin.  But  theirs,  too,  is  a  courage  unconquered  by  defeat, 
an  illimitable  hope  that  sees  in  spirit  the  vision  of  the  future,  even  when  the 
mortal  eyes  are  blinded  by  tears. 

With  this  persistent  note  of  sadness — indeed,  probably  growing  out  of  it 
-  the  poetry  of  Ireland  is  marked  by  a  delicate  spirituality  which  gives  it  a 
peculiar  charm.  Renan,  himself  of  Celtic  origin,  declares  the  Celtic  to  be 
the  most  feminine  in  temperament  of  all  races.  If  this  be  true  it  may  be  the 
secret  of  that  strange  delicacy  in  strength  which  can  better  be  felt  than 
described,  —  which  is  found,  to  note  one  instance  only,  in  songs  like  those 
of  Gerald  Griffin. 

Of  that  band  of  young  writers  mentioned  above — torch-bearers,  indeed, 
carrying  forward  once  more  the  light  of  the  Celtic  genius  —  a  place  in  the 
foremost  rank  must  be  accorded  to  Anna  Johnston  MacManus,  or  *  Ethna 
Carbery,'  as  the  public  knows  her.  Her  hand  gave  to  the  world  before  her 
early  death  only  one  small  volume  of  poems,  *  The  Four  Winds  of  Eirinn,' 
but  in  it  she  makes  amply  good  her  claim  to  the  prerogative  of  song.  In 
their  sadness  and  delicacy  her  poems  are  typical,  but  always  with  an  unmis- 
takable personal  note  of  their  own.  They  stand  somewhat  apart  from  the 
main  trend  of  the  so-called  neo-Celtic  school  of  poets,  which  seems  to  be 
towards  mysticism  of  one  kind  or  another.  With  these  searchers  after  an 
ethereal  and  invisible  beauty,  far  removed  from  all  material  things,  these 
dreamers  of  a  love  transcending  love,  she  is  not  to  be  placed,  though  in  a  few 
of  her  poems  points  of  contact  with  them  are  shown.  But  she  is  too  closely 
and  intensely  human,  it  would  seem,  to  be  held  long  by  this  mood.  The  theme 
of  most  of  her  poems  is,  simply  and  frankly,  love  —  warm  and  human,  and 
expressed  in  terms  that  always  ring  true  in  sentiment.  Equally  strong, 
however,  though  versed  in  fewer  of  her  songs,  is  her  passion  of  patriotism. 
She  might,  indeed,  almost  be  said  to  stand  between  the  poets  of  the  Young 
Ireland  era,  who  began  early  in  the  last  century  to  pour  their  burning  tribute 
of  song  upon  the  altar  of  Erin,  and  the  singing  seers  of  mysticism  and 
symbolism  whose  voices  are  now  being  raised. 

We  find  the  mystic  mood  in  'Niamh,'  'Angus  the  Lover,'  '  The  Quest,' 
and  some  others.     The  following  lines  are  from  the  last-mentioned  poem. 

'  The  moon-gold  web  of  your  hair  is  a  mesh  that  I  cannot  break, 
In  the  shadowy  wells  of  your  eyes  I  stoop  Love's  thirst  to  slake, 
And  find  the  water  as  bitter  as  Death's  unwelcome  cup  — 
Still,  slave  to  your  wordless  bidding,  I  quaff  the  bitter  up. 


228          POETRY  OF  ETHNA  CARBERY 

'  I  see  you  in  foam  of  the  waves,  and  clasp  it  with  passionate  hands,  — 
Yet  ever  it  vanishes,  soundless,  and  vague  as  a  dream,  in  the  sands. 
Are  you  too,  a  dream,  O  Heartbreaker  ?  Shall  I  greet  you  some  day  or 

some  night, 
To  know  you  for  sorrow  eternal,  or  the  star  of  unending  delight  ? ' 

That  love  of  country  which  is  at  once  a  passion  and  a  chivalry  burns 
through  those  poems  which  Ethna  Carbery  gave  to  *  Ireland  of  her  heart's 
love.'  Like  the  writings  of  the  Young  Irelanders  of  '48,  they  breathe  at  times 
a  terrific  defiance  and  an  undying  hatred,  and  yet  withal  a  tender  spirit  of 
devotion  and  self-sacrifice  that  redeems  their  harsher  qualities.  The  fol- 
lowing lines  are  from  the  poem  entitled,  '  Mo  Chraoibhin  Cno.' 

'  A  Sword  of  Light  hath  pierced  the  dark,  our  eyes  have  seen  the  Star. 
O  Eire,  leave  the  ways  of  sleep,  now  days  of  promise  are: 
The  rusty  spears  upon  your  walls  are  stirring  too  and  fro, 
In  dreams  they  front  uplifted  shields  —  Then  wake, 
Mo   Chraoibhin   Cno! 

'  The  little  waves  creep  whispering  where  sedges  fold  you  in, 
And  round  you  are  the  barrows  of  your  buried  kith  and  kin; 
Oh!  famine-wasted,  fever-burnt,  they  faded  like  the  snow 
Or  set  their  hearts  to  meet  the  steel  —  for  you, 
Mo   Chraoibhin   Cno! 


*  Then  wake,  a  gradh!     We  yet  shall  win  a  gold  crown  for  your  head, 
Strong  wine  to  make  a  royal  feast  —  the  white  wine  and  the  red  — 
And  in  your  oaken  mether  the  yellow  mead  shall  flow, 
What  day  you  rise  in  all  men's  eyes  —  a  Queen, 
Mo  Chraoibhin  Cno! ' 

In  this  we  have  an  effective  example  of  that  use  of  Gaelic  words  or  phrases 
as  a  refrain,  that  strange  mingling  of  languages  which  we  find  in  the  old 
street  ballads  and  in  many  later  songs  as  well.  In  the  phrase  here  used  — 
one  which  has  been  often  applied  to  Ireland,  —  we  have  a  striking  instance 
of  the  poetic  imagination  of  the  Celt.  Ireland,  personified  as  a  beautiful, 
brown-haired  girl,  is  addressed  as  '  My  cluster  of  nuts  '  —  the  literal  mean- 
ing of  the  phrase.  What  could  be  more  expressive  and  poetic  ? 

Lured  by  the  spell  of  Ethna  Carbery's  verses  we  are  led  into  the  enchanted 


WILLIAM  J.  MERRILL  229 

Shadow  Land  of  Irish  mythology.  Here  we  learn  of  the  winds  their  secrets. 
They  attain  colors  and  qualities,  if  not  distinct  personalities.  Indeed,  it  is 
a  peculiarity  of  the  Celtic  imagination  when  dealing  with  nature  that  its 
figures  seem  never  to  detach  themselves  entirely  from  nature  and  become 
distinct  and  independent  personages,  as  do  the  heroes  of  classical  mythology, 
but  are  ever  ready,  at  a  breath,  to  return  to  the  elements  from  which  they 
sprung.  But  we  find  that  the  north  wind  is  the  Black  Wind  of  Grief,  *  the 
voice  of  the  restless  dead  ';  the  wind  that  comes  from  the  east  is  red  and 
cruel,  the  Wind  of  Remorse;  the  south  wind  is  the  White  Wind  of  Love  and 
Lovers;  the  west  wind,  'the  Brown  Wind  of  Memory.'  In  and  out  through 
these  songs  they  blow,  lending  delicate  shades  of  meaning  when  their  sym- 
bolism is  rightly  understood.  In  this  enchanted  land  we  meet,  too,  with 
Angus  the  Lover,  the  Celtic  Eros,  with  his  three  bright  birds,  whose  kisses 
bring  love  —  and  death;  with  Lugh,  the  great  god  of  light;  with  the  myste- 
rious Niamh,  the  goddess  of  beauty,  and  with  the  Sidhe,  or  Gentle  Folk,  the 
fairy  people  of  Ireland  —  the  last  of  a  vanishing  race,  still  abiding  among 
the  misty  vales  and  green  hills  of  Erin,  though  the  skeptic  and  the  scoffer 
seem  to  have  driven  them  from  all  other  lands  of  the  world.  Folklore,  too, 
is  drawn  upon,  with  its  taleo  of  ghosts  and  banshees  —  and  one  figure  which 
we  do  not  remember  to  have  come  across  elsewhere,  the  mysterious  and 
deadly  '  Love  Talker.' 

*  I  met  the  Love  Talker  one  eve  in  the  glen, 
He  was  handsomer  than  any  of  our  handsome  young  men, 
His  eyes  were  blacker  than  the  sloe,  his  voice  sweeter  far 
Than  the  crooning  of  old  Kevin's  pipes  beyond  in  Coolnagar. 


*  Running  ever  thro'  my  head  is  an  old-time  rune, 
"  Who  meets  the  Love  Talker  must  weave  her  shroud  soon." 
My  mother's  face  is  furrowed  with  the  salt  tears  that  fall, 
But  the  kind  eyes  of  my  father  are  the  saddest  sight  of  all. 

'  I  have  spun  the  fleecy  lint  and  now  my  wheel  is  still, 
The  linen  length  is  woven  for  my  shroud,  fine  and  chill. 
I  shall  stretch  me  on  the  bed  where  a  happy  maid  I  lay  — 
Pray  for  the  soul  of  Maire  Og  at  dawning  of  the  day! ' 

We  know  of  no  other  language  so  rich  in  terms  of  endearment  as  the  Gaelic. 
Even  when  translated  into  their  English  equivalents  they  charm  by  their 


230          POETRY  OF  ETHNA  CARBERY 

unusualness,  their  variety  and  their  beauty.  The  land  itself  has  a  multitude 
of  endearing  appellations, — '  Mo  Chraoibhin  Cno,'  'Kathleen  Ni  Noulihan,' 
*  My  Dark  Rosaleen,' '  Shiela  Ni  Gara,' '  Silk  of  the  Kine,'  and  many  others, 
—  heritages  of  the  time  when  singing  her  praises  too  openly  might  bring  dire 
punishment  upon  the  ardent  poet.  '  Vein  of  my  heart,'  '  pulse  of  my  heart,' 
'  my  treasure,'  '  my  share  of  the  world,'  -—  these  are  a  few  of  the  expressions 
which  the  Gaelic  poet  lover  finds  ready  for  weaving  into  his  song  of  passion. 
With  wonderful  deftness  and  not  the  slightest  trace  of  straining  for  effect, 
Ethna  Carbery  makes  use  of  this  poetic  heritage  of  the  Celt.  For  the  reader 
accustomed  to  the  conventional  terms  of  English  poetry  they  cannot  fail  of 
appreciation  and  delight,  when  once  the  spirit  of  them,  their  rare  instinctive 
beauty,  are  caught  and  realized. 

Unmistakably  from  the  pages  of  '  The  Four  Winds  of  Eirinn,'  rings  the 
clear,  true  note  of  one  who  was  born  to  sing.  And  sing  she  did,  out  of  the 
fullness  of  a  heart  full  of  the  sorrow,  joy,  and  beauty  of  life.  It  would  be  dif- 
ficult, if  not  impossible,  to  find  a  labored  line  in  the  whole  of  her  poems. 
Not  that  they  are  carelessly  done.  Notwithstanding  their  rare  spontaneity, 
they  have  at  the  same  time  a  high  degree  of  artistic  finish.  Trite  as  the 
expression  is,  hers  is  truly  'the  art  that  conceals  itself,' — or  rather,  what 
perhaps  is  almost  the  same  thing,  feeling  so  instinctively  true  that  a  false 
note  is  almost  impossible.  For  most  remarkable  of  all  in  her  work  is  the 
musical  quality.  Her  poems  are  pre-eminently  lyrics.  With  one  or  two 
minor  exceptions,  all  the  poems  in  the  volume  are  songs,  — and  with  such 
music  in  themselves,  such  a  rare  sense  of  the  musical  qualities  of  words, 
that  to  many  of  them  music  itself  would  seem  an  unwarranted  addition. 
How  the  words  sing  themselves  in  these  lines  from  '  In  Donegal ' : 

*  I  know  a  purple  moorland  where  a  blue  loch  lies, 
Where  the  lonely  plover  circles,  and  the  pee-wit  cries, 

Oh!  do  you  yet  remember  that  dear  day  in  September, 
The  hills  and  shadowy  waters  beneath  those  tender  skies  ? 

'  In  Kerry  of  the  Kings  you  hear  the  cuckoo  call, 
You  watch  the  gorse  grow  withered  and  its  yellow  glory  fall; 

Yet  may  some  dream  blow  o'er  you  the  welcome  that's  before  you 
Among  the  wind-swept  heather  and  gray  glens  of  Donegal.' 

Here  the  internal  rhyme  so  characteristic  of  the  Gaelic  is  used  with  fine 
effect,  and  the  words,  simple  as  they  are  in  themselves,  seem  to  carry  under 
their  joy  a  thrill  of  half-felt,  dimly  realized  sorrow.  They  have  something 
of  the  strange  charm  of  sheer  sound-beauty  that  we  admire  in  Poe  and 


WILLIAM  J.  MERRILL  231 

Coleridge.     More  than  once  in  these  poems  a  phrase  will  be  found  remind- 
ing one  of  Poe,  —  such  as 

'  shadow  waves,  where  sleep 
Old  loves,  old  hates,  whose  doom  derides 
Vows  we  forget  to  keep;  * 
Or, 

*  As  if  the  lone  hifsh  of  lake  waters  were  stirred.' 

'  The  Song  of  Ciabhan,'  in  its  closely  worked  details  and  in  the  quietness 
and  smoothness  of  its  movement,  seems  reminiscent  of  Tennyson.  We 
quote  two  stanzas: 

'  The  slow  blue  stars 
Beneath  your  brows 
At  the  clash  of  wars 
Need  never  rouse; 
Through  day  hours  winging, 
My  love  shall  tend, 
And  my  gold  harp  send 
You  to  sleep  with   singing. 

*  Tall  blossoms  gleam 
Where  the  spear-sharp  sedge 
Sways  in  its  dream 
By  the  wavelet's  edge; 
There  shall  come  to  harm  you 
No  scourging  wind; 
But  south-blown,  kind, 
It  shall  soothe  and  charm  you.' 

But  to  attempt  to  make  comparisons  here  is  only  to  discover  that  there  is 
a  marked  personality  underlying  all  these  songs.  The  material  to  a  certain 
extent  is  old,  but  the  hand  that  moulded  it  into  things  of  new  beauty  had  a 
skill  all  its  own. 

The  extreme  simplicity  and  directness  of  an  exquisite  thing  like  the  poem 
entitled  '  Consummation  '  are  apt  to  lead  us  to  overlook  the  delicate  mastery 
of  mood  and  word  which  such  a  bit  of  work  calls  for.  We  quote  but  four 
stanzas: 

*  In  a  sheltered,  cool,  green  place 
You  and  I  once  stood  together 
Where  the  quickens  interlace. 


232          POETRY  OF  ETHNA  CARBERY 

'  Stars  and  mist,  and  dew-wet  flowers 
Scented,  shielded,  and  made  holy 
That  sweet  hour  of  the  hours. 

*  Oh,  Dear  Heart,  life  holds  no  gift 
Half  so  precious,  half  so  brittle, 
As  this  Love-cup  that  we  lift. 

4  And  remembering,  down  the  years 
All  my  songs  shall  echo  sighing, 
All  my  laughter  trill  with  tears/ 

We  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  four  more  stanzas,  to  illustrate  the  striking 
and  individual  charm  of  Ethna  Carbery's  work  —  the  first  two  from  '  Invo- 
cation/ 

*  The  steeds  of  the  Black  Wind  race 
Frost-shod  and  fleet 

Where  you  hide  from  my  love  your  face 

And  stay  your  feet: 

In  this  rose-rimmed  quiet  glen 

I  bide  and  pray 

Through  the  star-filled  gloom,  and  the  day, 

For  your  voice  again. 

*  When  the  arrow  ends  its  flight 
You  will  lonely  grow 

For  a  woman's  kiss  in  the  night 

And  her  breast  of  snow: 

You  will  reach  your  arms  to  the  Dark, 

And  call  and  cry 

As  the  winged  winds  sweep  by  — 

But  no  ear  shall  hark/ 

The  following  is  from  '  My  Prayer  ' : 

'  Set  your  love  before  me  as  a  shield ! 
That,  whistling  by,  the  shadowy,  wounding  spear 
Of  the  world's  hate  may  seek  my  heart  in  vain, 
Where  on  your  breast  it  nestles  —  half  in  fear 
Of  the  divine  sweet  silence  round  us  twain  — 
Set  your  love  before  me  as  a  shield!  ' 


WILLIAM  J.  MERRILL  233 

And  this  from  *  The  Wonder-Music/ 

'  I  would  play  you  the  music  of  mourning! 
And  put  you  to  grieving,  oh,  dear  love  and  fair, 
Till  you  droop  your  young  head  of  the  shadowy  hair, 
And  the  round  rainbow  tears  come  atrembling  and  fall, 
For  a  sorrow  of  sorrows  that  broods  over  all  - 
For  a  cruel  pain  burning.' 

It  is,  indeed,  hardly  fair  to  take  such  stanzas  as  these  separately  and  apart 
from  the  songs  of  which  they  are  such  integral  parts.  For  a  song,  it  seems, 
more  than  any  other  form  of  verse,  must  be  judged  in  an  entirety.  But  those 
who  have  felt  the  charm  of  the  *  wonder-music  '  which  Ethna  Carbery  made, 
know  that  in  her  death  some  years  ago  there  was  lost  to  the  world  the  pure, 
keen,  true-ringing  strain  of  one  who  struck  the  harp  of  Erin  with  no  uncer- 
tain touch. 


THE  BEAT  OF  A  WING 

BY  CHARLOTTE  PORTER 

ON  and  on!  hurling  through 

Fainting  spaces  of  tranquil  blue, 
I  beheld  in  the  Vast,  remote  and  high, 

Soaring  lonely,  a  strong  bird  fly. 

Oh,  the  sight  was  a  song, 

Only  no  words  belong 

To  a  call  of  the  spheres; 

Only  eyes  waken  ears 

To  a  song  the  gaze  hears. 

Who  will  witness  it  ?     You ! 
Heed  the  hushing  song, —  see  the  singing  sight 

Of  a  lonely  bird's  flight 

Through  the  sky's  silent  arc! 

Lo!  with  strain  of  the  effort  the  wings  shrink  dark, 
With  the  beat  of  each  motive  they  droop,  drop  stark, 
Of  the  glory  bereft,  the  color,  light, 

While  they  pulse  the  most  might: 

Living  buds  of  winged  flower 

Urging  on  the  ripe  hour! 

Ah!  the  bloom  of  the  effort  now  opens  them  bright! 
See,  oh,  see!  Beat  of  motive  now  blossoms  them  white, 
And  the  feathery  petals  fling  wide  rays 

From  the  heaven-lit  ways 
To  the  founts  of  desire  in  the  solar  blaze! 


234 


THE  P^SISTI  OF  THE  NINETEENTH 

CENTURY         v 

BY  THOMAS  D.  BERGEN 

IN  a  glance  backward  over  the  course  of  the  Italian  Romantic  Move- 
ment one  will  recall  none  of  the  unmeaning  violence  that  in  England 
typified  the  recalcitration  against  the  conventional  life  during  the 
sway  of  romanticism  there.  Those  red-shirted  revolutionists  who 
made  the  Risorgimento  just  what  it  was  lived  and  died  deaths  that 
were  in  themselves  poems  more  noble  than  those  which  they  left  for 
the  latter  day  anthologist  to  chronicle. 

With  one  exception  there  was  a  notably  breezy  cheer  in  the  verse  of  this 
period.  Alfieri,  the  fiery  misanthrope  of  Piedmont,  by  means  of  his  tyrant- 
objurgating  drama,  paved  the  way  for  the  birth  of  a  new  nation,  the  hitherto 
unrealized  vision  dreamed  of  by  Dante,  tacitly  formulated  by  Machiavelli, 
and  accomplished  by  Cavour.  The  peculiarly  somber  and  tumultuous 
tone  of  Alfieri,  however,  is  not  approached  by  any  of  his  successors.  Even 
Pindemonte  (1753-1828),  whose  mild  stand  against  formalism  in  letters 
marks  him  as  a  connecting  link  between  the  two  centuries,  betrays  in  his 
poetry  no  such  black  pessimism  as  does  either  Leopardi  or  Alfieri.  Shut  up 
like  Alfred  de  Vigny  in  his  *  ivory  tower  '  Pindemonte  leisurely  composed 
verses,  pleasantly  reminiscent  of  Vergil  diluted  and  permeated  by  a  plaintive 
note.  His  *  Poesie  campestri,'  markedly  tenuous,  are  the  first  Italian  exam- 
ples of  what  later  on  in  the  century  became,  in  robuster  form,  the  prevalent 
mode, —  the  delineation  of  nature's  charms  as  revealed  to  the  all-sensitive 
eye  of  the  poet  and  disassociated  from  all  other  purpose.  But  this  sensitive- 
ness was  no  whit  more  developed  in  Pindemonte  than  in  Thomson,  whose 
Seasons  are,  after  all,  portrayals  of  effects  of  which  he  felt,  as  an  American 
critic  appositely  remarks,  *  the  generalized  emotional  value/  We  may,  then, 
justly  regard  this  patrician  exquisite  as  the  unconscious  precursor  of  the 
romantic  movement  in  Italy,  much  as  we  do  the  Lombard  abbot  Parini,  who 
left,  on  the  threshold  of  the  new  century,  a  caustic  satire  on  the  dry-rotted 
society  of  the  old  regime,  as  the  herald  of  modernity  in  Italian  letters;  and 
we  may  truly  consider  Pindemonte  the  natural  literary  ancestor  of  the  two 
leading  poets  of  contemporary  Italy,  Pascoli  and  Marradi. 

235 


236  P^SISTI  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

The  lyric  romanticist  of  Italy  par  excellence  is  that  associate  of  Pinde- 
monte,  Ugo  Foscolo,  the  Latin  Werther,  whose  erudition  combined  with  one 
of  the  most  complex  make-ups  of  the  century  to  inspire  him  with  a  large  body 
of  verse  remarkable  alike  for  limpidity  and  elegance  of  form.  Greek  by 
birth  and  of  rearing  Dalmatian  and  Venetian  by  turns,  Foscolo's  intricate 
personality  has  given  more  than  one  analogist  of  psychologic  bent  free  play 
for  elaborating  theories  to  explain  his  sporadic  genius.  Howsoever  much 
the  victim  of  immoderate  idolatry  on  the  part  of  his  contemporaries,  Foscolo 
doubtless  deserved  great  praise  because  of  the  all  but  faultless  expression  of 
his  verse  and  its  stateliness  and  nobility  of  sentiment.  But  mere  technical 
excellence,  even  though  it  be  transcendent,  is  in  itself  not  enough.  Nowhere 
in  the  work  of  these  early  poets  do  we  find  the  keen  appreciation  of  nature 
shown  in  such  lavish  visualizations  as  Dante  gives  us  in  his  picture  of  young 
Arno  on  his  journey  through  the  Casentino  vale: 

*  Li  ruscelletti  che  de'verdi  colli 

Del  Casentin  discendon  giuoso  in  Arno, 
Facendo  i  lor  canali  e  freddi  e  molli,'  etc. 

Or  as  Petrarch  offers  in  his  description  of  the  enchanted  Vaucluse  region : 

*  Lieti  fiori,  e  felici,  ben  nate  herbe 

Schietti  arboscelli,  e  verdi  frondi   acerbe; 

Amorosette,  e  pallide  viole; 

Ombrose  selve,  ove  percote  il  Sole, 

Che  vi  fa  co'suoi  raggi  alte,  e  superbe, 

O  suave  contrada;  o  puro  fiume 

Che  prendi  qualita  dal  vivo  lume/  etc. 

In  fact  one  must  adventure  on  much  beyond  Pindemonte  and  Foscolo 
before  the  phylogeny  of  this  type  of  Italian  poetry  is  clearly  observable.  The 
appreciation  of  nature  as  a  legitimate  and  all-sufficing  end  for  the  poet  in  and 
for  itself  is  not  properly  seen  even  in  the  work,  at  times  instinct  with  almost 
the  melody  of  Shelley,  of  the  Venetian  Luigi  Carrer  (1801-1850).  Specific 
comparisons  of  poems  in  different  languages  are  bound  to  be  especially 
unsatisfactory;  but  one  feels  a  strangely  compelling  cadence,  a  distinctly 
langorous  swing  in  such  of  Carrer's  poems  as  his  '  hymns  '  'To  Earth'  and 
To  the  Sea/ 

One  cannot  pass  by  the  dramatic  figure  of  the  Tuscan  poet  and  patriot, 


THOMAS  D.  BERGEN  237 

Sestini  (1792-1822),  whose  best  known  work,  the  'Pia  de'Tolomei '  (based 
upon  the  reference  to  her  in  the  'Divina  Commedia')  is  rilled  with  exquisite 
descriptions  of  Tuscan  scenery.  Not  less  perfect  is  the  sonnet  sequence 
which  he  composed  in  memory  of  his  betrothed,  whose  untoward  death  by 
lightening  put  an  end  to  happiness  for  him  and  led  to  those  Sicilian  and  other 
rovings  throughout  which  he  enthralled  his  friends  by  his  improvisatorial 
genius.  So  far  as  I  know  there  had  been  since  Dante  no  poet  who  so  per- 
fectly visualized  in  verse  the  loveliness  of  Tuscan  landscape  with  all  its  far- 
away views  over  intervening  valleys  to  the  Apennines.  Here  are  its  tiny 
cities,  cresting  the  haze-girt  knolls  familiar  to  us  in  the  backgrounds  of  cer- 
tain of  the  best-loved  quattro-cento  masters  of  Florence,  such  as  Gentile  da 
Fabbriano  or  Benozzo  Gozzoli;  its  rolling,  vineyarded  spaces;  its  macchie  of 
lush  bracken  and  golden  ginestra,  over  which  in  June  afternoons  play  the 
'  nuvoli  turchini';  its  grassy  brooksides  and  interminable  byways  festooned 
on  either  side  with  purpling  blackberry  vines;  its  meadows  dozing  in  the  sum- 
mer sun;  its  mountain  glens,  cool  and  redolent  of  sweet  flowers;  its  meander- 
ing lanes  along  which  one  finds  sheep  tinkling  their  bells  in  the  first  dew- 
drenched  hours  of  morning  when  the  cloud-fleeces  blot  out  everything  a  fur- 
long distant;  its  century-stained  campanili  that  crown  the  hilltops  all  about. 

Leopardi,  chief  Italian  poet  of  his  century,  in  a  few  immortal  poems 
depicts  discrete  objects  in  nature  rather  than  nature  herself.  This  hap- 
less valetudinarian  injected  into  his  poetry — the  apotheosis  of  despair — 
none  of  the  pensive  decadence,  redolent  of  absinthe,  which  pervades  French 
pessimistic  verse.  Although  he  lived  during  the  early  days  of  romanticism 
his  genius  soared  high  above  all  such  paltry  things  as  movements  or  schools. 
It  is  important  to  note  the  well-nigh  sculpturesque  perfection  of  his  poetry. 
He  phrased  in  matchless  verse  alike  the  grandeur  of  Vesuvius  and  the  hum- 
ble farmyard  with  its  belongings.  His  love  of  nature  was  as  genuine  as  that 
of  the  most  naturalistic  Greek  elegists,  whom,  at  times,  he  resembles  in 
felicity. 

Had  the  Veronese  Aleardi  possessed  the  needful  severity  of  taste  to  clip 
out  the  undergrowth  of  his  poems,  critics  might  less  justly  cry  out  upon  most 
of  his  verse  as  inspired  magniloquence.  Aleardi's  form  is  nowadays  more 
monotonous  than  seductive;  and  the  once  unbridled  admiration  for  his  poems 
which  have  fallen  into  complete  abeyance  is  not  easy  to  understand.  Al- 
though he  never  wrote  a  poem  of  sustained  excellence  one  finds  scores  of 
beautiful  verses  embedded  in  a  mire  of  merely  euphonious  verbiage.  His 
lines  are  too  dulcifluous,  languid,  exotic,  too  lullingly  melodious.  But 
despite  all  this  verbose  exuberance  there  are  many  admirable  passages  of 
appreciation  of  the  Tuscan  and  Roman  marches. 


238  P^SISTI  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Another  victim  of  premature  idolatry,  the  Tyrolese  bard  Prati  is  at 
present  hardly  read  at  all.  Notwithstanding  the  too  tremulous,  almost 
petulant  note  of  regret  in  his  stanzas  we  frequently  run  across  poems  of  his 
that  are  firmer  in  texture  than  those  of  his  supposed  model,  Lamartine. 

In  such  a  cursory  glimpse  as  this  over  the  field  of  so-called  nature  poets 
of  Italy  one  must  needs  omit  not  a  few  names  which  bear  upon  the  topic. 
In  a  list  of  these  landscapists  Carducci  would  not  figure  to  any  such  extent 
as  non-Italian  readers  might,  at  first  thought,  imagine.  When  we  refresh 
our  memories  of  the  late  Tuscan's  great  body  of  verse  we  are  confronted 
with  a  large  mass  of  poetry  dealing  pre-eminently  with  purely  human  affairs 
and  moods,  not  with  the  expression  of  the  poet's  love  of  hedgerows  or  flowers 
or  birds  or  waves  or  storms  or  sunsets,  in  short  with  all  that  complexus  of 
phenomena  which  we  call  nature.  A  sonnet  upon  Goldoni,  an  ode  to  Victor 
Hugo,  a  poem  on  the  death  of  the  patriot  Cairoli,  these,  together  with  poems 
of  historic  or  literary  content  that  appeal  to  the  intellect  rather  than  to  the 
senses,  constitute  the  main  bulk  of  this  master's  poetry.  There  are,  however, 
a  sufficient  number  of  examples,  as  '  Nostalgia,'  *  Through  the  Val  d'Arno,' 
'  Crossing  the  Tuscan  Maremma,'  the  famous  '  At  the  Fount  of  Clitumnus,' 
to  show  that  this  poet,  the  most  virile  of  his  century,  possessed  a  strong  love 
of  nature  in  many  of  her  moods. 

One  has  only  to  skim  the  pages  of  those  anthologies  that  contain  repre- 
sentative Italian  poems  of  the  last  forty  years  or  so  to  understand  how  great 
a  proportion  deals  with  nature  worship  pure  and  simple.  The  intensest 
expressions  of  this  feeling  have  for  the  most  part  been  voiced  by  the  contem- 
porary poets,  in  large  measure  Tuscan.  There  is  not  space  here  even  to  list, 
much  less  to  quote  from,  the  chief  of  these,  not  even  from  Panzacchi,  Nen- 
cioni,  or  Graf.  From  1869,  the  year  in  which  appeared  the  first  volume  of 
verse  by  Betteloni  until  the  present  day,  there  has  been  a  steadily  increasing 
bulk  of  nature  poetry  which  finds  its  highest  reach  in  the  work  of  the  two 
Tuscans,  Giovanni  Pascoli  and  Giovanni  Marradi.  The  former,  Carducci's 
junior  by  a  score  of  years,  passed  through  all  the  grades  of  scholarly  life 
which  could  bring  him  to  be  the  justly  appointed  successor  to  the  elder's 
honored  chair  at  Bologna.  By  training  a  classicist  of  the  classicists,  he  spe- 
cialized in  Horace;  and  is,  as  his  poems  attest,  an  adept  in  the  technique  of 
prosody.  Author  of  some  half  dozen  volumes  of  poems  he  has  never  written 
any  more  adequate  than  those  of  his  first  book,  entitled  '  Myricae.'  Like 
Leopardi  he  deals  with  humble  topics, —  the  lone  sparrow,  the  gleaner,  bud- 
ding time,  the  wild  whin,  the  snowstorm,  the  night  wind,  cropping  herds,  the 
copse  rose,  the  peach  tree,  and  the  like,  which  he  describes  with  a  fidelity  and 
a  simplicity  of  expression  that  easily  place  him  among  the  foremost  of  what, 


THOMAS  D.  BERGEN  239 

lacking  a  better  name,  are  called  landscape  poets  of  any  country.  Pascoli 
has  written,  especially  during  late  years,  not  a  few  poems  more  pretentious 
both  in  theme  and  in  treatment;  but  even  though  perhaps  emulous  of  becom- 
ing the  Tennysoi  of  Italy,  he  excels  in  the  description  of  the  objects  of  nature 
rather  than  in  the  lyric  analysis  of  nature's  moods  as  related  to  his  own. 

With  Marradi,  on  the  contrary,  the  case  is  quite  reversed.  While  Pas- 
coli most  often  impresses  one,  as  would  a  naturalist  —  a  Thoreau  or  a  Rich- 
ard Jefferies  —  turned  pastmaster  of  poetic  forms  and  usages,  Marradi 
rather  subjectively  steeps  the  reader's  fancy  in  the  mood  of  the  moment. 
Pascoli,  the  poetical  ecologist,  observes  and  chronicles  the  facts  and  image- 
begetting  phenomena  of  our  environment.  Marradi  observes  these  and  not 
content  with  this  alone,  attuning  himself  to  the  dominant  note  of  these  phe- 
nomena, and  putting  the  reader  under  his  spell,  makes  him  relive  the  mood 
just  as  the  poet  himself  first  experienced  it.  He  does  not  give  us  pallid  reflec- 
tions of  passionate  experiences,  but  rather  mirrors  in  one's  heart  his  own  mood 
in  such  wise  that  the  reader  evokes  for  himself  one  nearly  identical  with  it. 

Not  for  a  momentwould  the  writer  seekto  compare  in  point  of  excellence 
a  sonnet  of  Marradi  with,  let  us  say,  one  of  Alfred  de  Musset's  '  Nuits.' 
Still  not  only  the  images  called  up  by  the  former,  but  his  simple  eloquence  of 
expression,  place  Marradi  on  a  high  level.  Through  his  eyes  we  see  the 
picture  of  two  lovers  in  the  wan  moonlight  wandering  down  the  slopes  of 
Fiesole  into  Florence,  buried  in  snowy  billows  of  mist  save  for 

*  Come  un'aerea  gigantesca  pina, 
Cinta  di  stelle  e  di  sottil  vapore 
Solitaria  emergea  neli'argentina 
Serenita  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore;' 

that  of  the  railway  trip  from  Arezzo  to  Florence  along  the  banks  of  Arno 
with  its  solemn  fishers  half  merged  in  haze;  that  of  Medicean  Florence  as  one 
paces  up  and  down  her  bridges  by  night,  that  of  the  Tyrrhenian  seashore: 


*  limpida  sorride 

Sul  mar  la  calma,  e  con  tremolin  d'oro 
L'onda  azzureggia;  mentre  la  Gorgona 
Spicca  nel  mezzo  nereggiante,  e  sembra 
Un  gran  cetaceo  che  galleggi  immoto 
Per  godersi  egli  pur  questo  superbo 
Spettacolo.' 


Unnumbered  prospects  of  sunsets  seen  from  the  castle-tipped  towns  of  Tus- 
cany; of  hot,  indolent  mornings  on  the  beach  beside  the  brown  nets;  of  dead 
calms  spent  upon  the  slow-heaving  sea;  of  those  still  days  which  we  term 


24o  P^SISTI  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Indian  summer,  when  the  unearthly  hush  is  broken  only  by  the  droning  over 
fields  of  crimson-headed  clover  of  great  purple  bees;  of  days  in  the  city  of 
dreams,  Siena,  looking  afar  off  from  the  fortress  past  the  gray  olive  orchards, 
over  broad  meadows  into  the  bell-towered  distances, —  all  this  and  more  con- 
jures up  before  one  and  in  a  form  indescribably  musical.  Here  are  none 
of  the  languid  mouthings  of  that  arch  pleonast  Aleardi,  none  of  Prati's  lach- 
rymce  rerum,  none  of  the  overwrought  motifs  of  that  specialist  in  architec- 
tonic lyrism,  Guido  Mazzoni,  Carducci's  favorite  disciple.  One  does  not 
expect  to  find  nor  does  he  discover  in  the  poems  of  either  Pascoli  or  of  Mar- 
radi  the  surpassing  mastery  of  Shelley  or  of  Keats.  But  he  is  perfectly  safe 
in  making  the  somewhat  novel  plea  that  both  of  these  Italians,  as  well  as  cer- 
tain of  their  immediate  predecessors,  and  not  a  few  of  their  contemporaries, 
have  shown  quite  as  intense  and  sincere  an  appreciation  of  nature  as  have 
any  of  the  English,  French,  or  German  poets  of  the  period  under  discussion. 
The  fact,  once  accepted,  is  the  more  significant  in  that  Italy,  with  all  her 
trebly  glorious  traditions,  remains  to-day  the  least  nationalized  country  of 
modern  Western  Europe.  Hence  she  has  more  than  any  other  nation  been 
thrown  back  upon  her  puristic  antecedents.  Still  another  far-reaching 
social  trait  characteristic  of  Italians  would  seem  to  make  for  a  breed  of  writers 
of  vers  de  societe  rather  than  for  a  group  of  sticklers  for  the  ideals  in  poetry 
of  which  Leopardi  and  Carducci  are  such  lofty  exemplars.  I  refer  to  the 
time-honored  aptitude  for  an  urban  existence  with  all  that  this  implies, — 
an  innate  fondness  for  cafe  lounging  and  its  entailed  gossipy  conversazioni; 
the  typical  Italian  horror  of  solitude;  the  fondness  for  saunterings  along 
paved  rather  than  along  cespitous  ways;  the  all  but  universal  practice  of 
which  wre  Anglo-Saxons  shed  to  a  great  extent  with  the  paling  of  the  age  of 
Anne  and  the  reign  of  coffee  houses  as  the  general  places  of  polite  resort;  the 
fixed  habit  of  repairing  to  the  play  on  the  part  of  all  those  who  for  professional 
reasons  are  not  prevented  from  gathering  around  this  pivotal  rallying-ground, 
the  notion,  in  fine,  that  the  country,  in  itself  the  negligible  periphery  of  their 
urban  environment,  is  a  region  best  apprehended  through  the  pages  of  a 
book.  That,  despite  this  too  general  attitude,  Italy  has  produced  a  school 
of  such  eloquent  limners  of  nature  as  that  at  which  we  have  hastily  glanced 
is  as  creditable  to  them  as  it  is  unexpected. 


POET    LORE    ADVERTISER 


THE  STRAND  MAGAZINE 

SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS  FOR  JULY,  1908. 


ARTISTS'  IDEALS  OF  BEAUTY 

Seven  beautiful  full-page  duptone  illustrations. 

These  portraits,  selected  by  well-known  figure  painters  as  their  ideals  of  beauty,  suggest  the 
conclusion  that  artists,  as*  much  as  other  men,  differ  in  their  preferences.  Still,  taking  their 
selections  as  a  whole,  we  think  most  people  will  agree  that  it  would  be  difficult  indeed  to  find 
seven  types  of  feminine  beauty  to  excel  the  loveliness  of  those  whose  portraits  are  reproduced 
in  this  number. 

REMINISCENCES  AND  REFLECTIONS 

By  SIR  JOHN  HARE 

In  this  —  the  third  —  instalment  of  his  reminiscences,  Sir  John  Hare,  the  famous  English  actor,  takes  us 
through  one  of  the  most  interesting  periods  of  his  career,  and  tells  how  he  started  in  management  on  his  own 
account.  The  illustrations  this  month  are  of  more  than  usual  interest. 

PICTURES  IN  MUSIC 

Do  you  see  pictures  in  music?  When  you  hear  a  Beethoven  symphony  or  a  sonata  by  Schumann,  do  mystic 
figures  and  landscapes  float  before  your  eyes?  It  is  by  no  means  new  or  uncommon  for  a  composer  to  have  a 
distinct  picture  in  his  mind  when  he  sets  himself  to  create  a  work.  Few,  however,  have  been  able  to  delineate 
their  hallucinations  born  of  music.  Mendelssohn,  who  was  no  mean  draughtsman,  was  often  asked  to  do  so,  but 
always  refused.  "  It  is  the  function  of  music  to  hear,  not  to  see,"  he  once  said.  Nevertheless,  it  is  highly  in- 
teresting to  see  music  translated  in  the  terms  of  a  sister  art,  and  this  is  what  a  clever  artist,  Miss  Pamela  Colman 
Smith,  has  now  done,  in  pictures  which  are  here  published  for  the  first  time. 

SOME  MUCH  DISCUSSED  PUZZLES  —  By  HENRY  E.  DUDENEY 

Much  interest  has  been  aroused  by  the  puzzle  articles  we  have  lately  published.  Here  is  another  which 
should  provide  many  an  hour's  amusement  for  both  young  and  old. 

This  number  is  exceptionally  strong  in 

Dramatic  Short  Stories 

which  include: 

IN  LETTERS  OF  FIRE From  the  French  of  Gaston  Leroux 

THE  DEAD  EYES  OF  LOVE By  Tom  Gallon 

LAWLESS  OF  PRESIDIO By  C.  C.  Andrews 

THE  ROOD  STREET  REVOLUTION By  Arthur  Morrison 

HER  LITTLE  WAY By  Anne  Warner 

WHY  I  AM  NOT  A  CRIMINAL  —  Pictured  by  W.  Heath  Robinson 

This  series  of  half  a  dozen  drawings,  by  the  well-known  humorous  artist,  W.  Heath  Robinson,  is  one  of  the 
most  amusing  features  we  have  ever  published.  The  manner  in  which  he  shows  that  crime  is  no  longer  what  it 
was,  and  how  great  a  degree  of  ingenuity  is  now  required  in  the  departments  of  burglary,  smuggling,  kidnapping, 
and  larceny,  must  be  seen  —  and  laughed  over  —  to  be  believed. 

MEN-SERPENTS 

An  article  describing  the  remarkable  feats  of  some  famous  contortionists,  illustrated  with  striking  photo- 
graphs of  their  extraordinary  poses. 

W.  W.  JACOBS 

provides  a  feast  of  humor  in  another  long  instalment  of  his  serial  story  "  SALTHAVEN,"  which  is  illustrated  by 
that  well-known  character  artist,  WILL  OWEN. 

"  MY  AFRICAN  JOURNEY  "—  By  Winston  Spencer  Churchill 

Mr.  Churchill,  who  has  lately  been  appointed  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade  and  is  now  a  member  of  the 
British  Cabinet,  this  month  describes  in  his  breezy  style  his  journey  through  East  Africa  to  the  Great  Lake,  as  the 
Victoria  Nyanza  is  called.  As  usual  he  illustrates  his  narrative  with  a  very  varied  selection  of  photographs. 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  ORIGIN  OF  FIRES 

Outbreaks  of  fire  are  often  most  mysterious  in  their  origin.  We  are  frequently  confronted  with  problems 
concerning  the  cause  of  fires  in  houses,  factories,  and  fields  that  are  utterly  baffling  and  insoluble.  Yet  in  what 
simple  ways  we  may  be  victimized  the  examples  given  in  this  aiticle  afford  most  striking  proof. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  ARDEN 

Another  chat-ter  of  this  fascinating  story  for  children,  by  E.  NESBIT. 

CURIOSITIES 


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pofjemtan 

The  August  number  is  full  of  bright  stories  and  illustrated 
features.  For  instance,  there  are  "Jfabsf  ano  JfatUtejEi  before 
tfje  Camera,"  beautifully  illustrated  from  photographs  ;  "{Efje 

dipping  Bementia,"  with  many  cartoons ;  "<grober  Clebelanb's 
Hife  at  Princeton,"  with  photographs ;  "  Womtn  in 

,"  with  many  photographs ;    and  tZTtoelbe  short  stories. 


THE 

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MAGAZINE 
DEPOSIT,  NEW  YORK 


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111 


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Religions:  Ancient  and  Modern 

The  Series  is  intended  to  present  to  a  large  public  the  salient  features  of  the 
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NOW  PUBLISHED 
Animism          By  EDWARD  CLODD      Hinduism  By  DR.  L.  D.  BARNETT 

Pantheism  Ancient  China  By  PROF.  GILES 

By  JAMES  ALLANSON  PICTON     Ancient  Greece 
Celtic  Religion  By  PROF.  ANWYL  By  JANE  HARRISON 

Mythology  of  Ancient  Babylonia  and  Assyria 

Britain  and  Ireland          T  ,        ty?T^'  G.  PINCHES 

By  CHARLES  SQUIRE      lsJam.       %  .SvED  A^EER  ALI>  M'A- 

Ancient  Egypt  Religion  of  Ancient  Rome 

By  PROF.  W.  M.  FLINDERS  PETRIE  .  %  CYRIL  BAILEY,  M.  A. 

Scandinavian    Religion  Judaism      ;•  By  ISRAEL  ABRAHAMS 

By  w.  A.  CRAIGIE    Shinto  \   The  Ancient 
Magic  and  Fetishism  Religion  of  Japan 

By  DR.  A.  C.  HADDON  By  W.  G.  ASTON,  c.  M.  G.,  LL.  D. 

IN  PREPARATION 

The  Religion  of  Ancient  Israel     By  PROF.  JASTROW 

The  Religion  of  Ancient  Mexico  and  Peru  By  LEWIS  SPENCE 

Islam  in  India     By  T.  W.  ARNOLD,  Assistant  Librarian  at  the  India  Office, 

Author  of  "The  Preaching  of  Islam." 
Buddhism    2    vols.     By    Professor   T.    W.    RHYS  DAVIDS,  LL.  D. 

The  Religion  of  Ancient  Persia    By  DR.  A.  V.  WILLIAMS  JACKSON, 

Professor  of  Iranian  at  Columbia  University. 
Primitive  or  Nicene  Christianity     By  JOHN  SUTHERLAND  BLACK, 

LL.  D.,  Joint  Editor  of  the  "Encyclopaedia  Biblica." 

Mediaeval  Christianity 

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Alterations  and  Adaptations  of 
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O 

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& 


PS3545  I27W3  1908 
Wiegand,  Johannes. 
The  wages  of  war 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA  001  259  072  5 


3  1210  00644  0661 


